Come Back to Me
by questionsleftunanswered
Summary: Watching Sherlock die ended everything John had come to love. He wanted to forget all the hurt that it caused. Lacuna gave him a way out. Now Sherlock is back, but John has no memory of their life together. On top of that, a lovely girl named Mary has captured John's attention. Sherlock must win John back and try to help him remember days gone by.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sat in Mycroft's office and twirled the card between his fingers.

"How long?"

Mycroft just looked weary. "I received the card about two months ago. It took a while to track you. I believe you were in Indonesia at the time."

"Why?"

Mycroft knew it wasn't a real question. He knew just as well as Sherlock did why John chose to erase his partner. Sherlock died.

John had made a genuine effort to move on. It lasted a year and had not worked. He woke up each day, took a shower, ate breakfast, went to work, ate lunch, worked some more, went home, and slept. It was a routine like clockwork. John hated it as much as he feared diverting from it.

oOo

**Three Months Earlier**

"John!" Mike called from down the hallway.

John stopped and turned, waiting for his mate to catch up.

"I'm glad I caught you," Mike said slightly out of breath, "I checked the surgery but they said you'd gone. I have a class tomorrow at 10 in the morning and I've got a train to go see my Mum at 9. I mixed up the times. It's a real good class. You won't need to give them any material. I told them you'd be a guest speaker for that period and they could just ask you about being a trauma surgeon."

John knew that wasn't why Mike wanted him to take the class. There were plenty of trauma surgeons who were better qualified to handle a classroom of hopeful doctors. Mike wanted John to have an audience. Give him a chance to be around people again and talk about whatever he wanted.

This was the first diversion from his schedule since After Reichenbach became a time period.

oOo

John walked into the lecture hall. It was smaller than some of the others Bart's has to offer. Still, though, it managed to be imposing and full. Depending on the professor, lectures for a class were open to any student wishing to attend. Mike was one such professor.

Mike had assured John that the class was only 48 students. The 100 seat lecture hall was full. John squared his shoulders and stepped up to the front.

There was a desk off to the right and a podium to the left just three feet away. John propped his computer up on the desk, plugged it in, and took a seat.

The noise began to die down as students realized that John was indeed ready and waiting to begin. Slowly, silence fell.

John stood, but stayed partially guarded by the solid wooden desk.

"Hello. My name is Dr John Watson. I understand that Professor Stamford has told you I will be running this class today. I was not aware that we would be having guests." John was not going to be some uni kid's dancing monkey. "Those of you who are not in the class, please leave."

About 20 people stood and exited. All 20 whispering loud enough to technically be yelling.

"Right. I have a roster of those who belong in the class. I will ask one more time, those of you not in this class, please leave. Either you go or I do."

The rest of the extras stood and trickled out. John gave a satisfied smile when the door clicked shut. He looked out at the remaining 48 faces. This was going to be a long day.

John moved to the podium and grabbed the sides. He had a few typed up notes in front of him and the sneaking suspicion that he wouldn't use them.

"As I've already told you, my name is Dr John Watson. You may all feel free to call me John. I am from Aldershot in Hampshire. I did two full tours of duty in Afghanistan as a doctor in the RAMC. Seven months into my third tour I was wounded in action and invalided home. Before that I achieved the rank of Captain. I, like some of you, trained here at Bart's before being deployed."

John paused and looked to make sure he hadn't lost anyone. Most of the students appeared to still be paying attention. He could tell already what ones would be glazed over by the end of the session. He had a fleeting bit of pride in his deduction. Then it hurt.

He continued, "I currently work for Bart's as a trauma surgeon. That is why Professor Stamford asked me to talk to you today."

He didn't want to open the floor to questions. He didn't want these people to ask him about Sherlock. They all had internet access and televisions. Please. Don't mention him. "Any questions?"

Hands shot in the air and John chose to go easy and pick a young girl who seemed to have been paying attention the entire time.

"Yes, there. What's your name?"

Her hand went down, "Kate, sir."

"And your question, Kate?"

"Did you know from an early age that you were going to be a military doctor? If so, what challenges did you face climbing the ladder both studying medicine and working in the field…or desert I should say."

Good. No mention of Sherlock.

John answered question after question about his time in Afghanistan. He discussed what his unit did in their free time and what it felt like to be shot. There was a round of questions related to being a trauma surgeon and "How does he deal with the pressure?" John managed to go a full 45 minutes without a single mention of Sherlock. Only 15 minutes left to go. _You can do this, Watson._

The next question came from a bloke closer to the back.

"My name is Peter Trevor."

John kept a straight face. _Trevor. _"What is it you wanted to ask?"

"Why won't you say Sherlock was a hoax? I'm not sayin' I think he was, just that you never said he was a fake. You spent all that time wit' him and never realized he was having one over on ya."

John cleared his throat, "Because Sherlock was not a fake."

What else was there to say? He wasn't going to tell them that Sherlock was amazing. He sure as hell wasn't going to tell them that Sherlock saved him in every way a man could possibly need saving.

"That will be the end of class. I will be sure to give a positive report to Mik- Professor Stamford."

John began collecting his things. The papers listing statistics and comparisons in the military were never used. He didn't bother with the papers at all, really. He stuffed them into the bin and closed his laptop up. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, John noticed a girl lingering behind.

"Can I help you?"

Kate looked up, startled at being addressed, "Oh. I just wanted to talk to you about something."

"Go on," John set the bag back down and waved for her to speak.

"My roommate went through this rough break-up with this guy. He was real shite and she was better for it. Anyway, she was really torn up about it. Someone gave her this card for some place called Lacuna. So she went there and afterwards gave me a call asking if I'd stay over at another mate's that night."

"Sorry," John interrupted, "What part of this story did you want to talk to me about?" It seemed like the girl was just wasting his time.

"I'm getting to that, sir."

John waved again for her to continue.

"So I went and spent the night at this other mate's house. The next day I asked her why I had to stay over Andrea's, the other girl's house. Carrie, the mate who had the break-up, just sort of shrugged and asked me if I wanted to get lunch. I asked how she was doing after the break up Matt and she just looked at me and asked who Matt was. I wanted to know if it is really possible for just one person to be completely erased from another person's life? Because that's how it is with Carrie. And Lacuna sent me this card about it saying that Carrie had Matt erased from her memory and to never mention him to her again."

John thought about it for a minute and shook his head, "I'm not really the person to ask about that. I don't know much outside of the basics of brain and memory. Maybe Dr Carter in neurology can help you? I'm sorry I don't have anything to offer."

Kate nodded, "Thank you anyway." She turned to leave and paused at the door. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes, sir." Kate pushed through the door and was gone.

oOo

That night, John looked up Lacuna on the internet.

They claimed to be capable of erasing any one person or an event from a mind. Make it as though it never happened. There was a page on the website that showed a list of smiling doctors and associates. Another gave a rough outline of the procedure and the science behind what they do.

John's vision became sluggish from reading through all the pages. He got up and wandered upstairs. Sherlock's room was untouched. The sheets still rumpled on both sides of the bed.

John lay in bed staring at the ceiling. In the past, on nights that John couldn't sleep, Sherlock would curl up next to him and read from the nearest medical journal. If they were on a case, Sherlock would bring the file and read that instead.

Now the silence held no promises.

John rolled onto his side, ignoring the slight pull in his shoulder. He rested a palm across the bed where Sherlock would have been and began to contemplate a life without consulting detectives.

oOo

**Two Months and One Week Earlier**

John stared at his cell phone.

It was raining outside and the laughter from _QI_ was pushed into the background.

He picked it up and dialled.

"Hello, Lacuna offices Mary speaking. How many I help you today?" Mary's voice was crisp and business like, despite sounding like she was slightly bored.

"My name is John Watson. I'd like to schedule an appointment."

"What is the nature of your visit, sir?"

"I want to forget Sherlock Holmes."

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

John panicked. _She recognizes the name and my name. I wonder if she's going to tell the press. Oh they'd love that: Fraud Detective's Husband Shamed Into Forgetting. _

There was a shuffle and then Mary's voice came back, "Sir that procedure will require a visit to Lacuna lasting around four to seven hours depending on how much material we need to cover. That same evening we will send a team of highly trained professionals to your residence so that they may complete the procedure. The following morning we will send out notice cards to whomever you choose. You will have no memory of requesting our services or the subject the procedure will remove. Will that be all?"

John took a deep breath. "Yes. When can I come in?"

"The next open appointment is at 10 in the morning on Monday. Will you be available?"

"Yes. That's fine. I'll take 10am Monday."

And just like that Sherlock could be gone.

John hung up the phone and sat quietly in his armchair. He would no longer remember their very first chase. He'd forget dinner at Angelo's. Would the limp be back? Would he be single again? Suppose so. Can't be married to someone if you don't know they exist. He'd forget his wedding day. John made a mental note to post his wedding band to Mycroft Monday morning on the way to Lacuna. He had nowhere else to send it. The feeling was strange. As though by making the appointment Sherlock was already slipping away from him. That was the point, though; to finally be able to let Sherlock go.

oOo

The last Monday of the month was John's appointment. He showed up to Lacuna five minutes early and waited in the uncomfortable chair. Shifting around, he observed the other people in the room.

Woman to the left: Holding a cluster of photos. All of a young man. _Son_, Sherlock's voice said. He was smiling in a playground in one. Beneath it, he salutes the camera. _Soldier_, Sherlock said again.

John closed his eyes and willed the voice louder, knowing that it would soon leave him and wanting to cling to the cadence of it. He used to love Sherlock's voice. The speed with which it gave a deduction and the slow taste of every syllable when giving away precious personal details to John and the midnight whirls of London.

His left hand was bare. There was a visible line where his wedding ring had once sat. He had never taken it off since the day Sherlock slid it on his finger. Not even to help with experiments or handle evidence. If the ring bore signs of his and Sherlock's work, so be it. He wanted it to fully represent their relationship. It couldn't do that if he took it off to handle something messy. Every scratch on it was a love letter.

John was half tempted to write a note and mail it to Mycroft with the wedding band. The two hadn't had much contact since Sherlock's death, but they were still technically family. Didn't Mycroft deserve an explanation? What was he to write in such a note though?

_Dear Mycroft, Sorry I failed your brother. I still love him, and it hurts me more than I can bear. I'm sorry that I'm failing him again, but my life ended when he fell, and I see no other alternative barring following him off that ledge. Give my best to your mother, and forgive me my weaknesses. John_

No. Such a note would be impossible to write, much less put in the post amidst anniversary cards, new-born baby announcements, birthday cards, and all other forms of mail that celebrate the lives their senders lead. No, his impossible letter did not belong in the post. Mycroft would get the ring. Later, he would receive the small, typed card. And if the man had any humanity, he would understand.

"John Watson," Mary called from the desk.

John stood and walked through the door to the back room.

"Hello, I'm Dr Mierzwiak," said a tall, aging man, "You must be Mr John Watson."

"Yes," John said extending his hand. He tried to remember the last time he met someone who called him mister. Everyone he knew or spoke to called him doctor. It made him realize how little he had actually gone outside to meet new people. Ever the girl at the café by the clinic called him Doc.

John shook the thought away and sat opposite Dr Mierzwiak at the rounded table. He began outlining the procedure to John, pausing every so often so John could keep up and stay focused on what was happening. After their discussion, Dr Mierzwiak stood.

"Are you ready to begin, John?" he asked.

John nodded. The first part was a basic interview about John and Sherlock's relationship. Dr Mierzwiak clicked on a microphone at the centre of the table.

oOo

**Dr Meirzwiak:** This is Dr Meirzwiak. Stage one of John Watson's procedure on Sherlock Holmes. Please state your name.

**John:** John Watson

**Dr Meirzwiak:** When did you first meet Sherlock Holmes?

**John:** I was introduced to him at St. Bartholomew's Hospital soon after moving back to London.

**Dr Meirzwiak:** And what was the catalyst of that meeting?

**John:** We both needed a flat share.

**Dr Meirzwiak:** Describe an average day with Mr Holmes.

**John:** There is no such thing as an average day with Sherlock Holmes. Some days we were working on a case and had to travel. Some days we spent entirely at the morgue. On one occasion he was arrested in Amsterdam and I had to go fetch him. The only days that every repeated were the ones after a case. He would get bored. The great idiot never ate properly, but it was especially bad when he was bored and being obstinate. He played the violin a lot; performed the odd experiment. Those were the things that repeated, not the daily routine.

The interview continued in much the same manner; following their chronology right up to their engagement.

**Dr Meirzwiak:** How did you become engaged to Mr Holmes?

**John:** We were sitting at breakfast and he asked me if I'd marry him. He didn't have a ring or anything fancy. Just sitting there in his blue dressing gown with this look on his face. It was as close to trepidation as I've ever seen him. I set my toast back on the plate and said yes. That was the end of it. We both returned to our breakfasts and carried on as though nothing had happened. It wasn't until a few hours later, when we first told people, that it struck us. We were to be married.

**Dr Meirzwiak:** Can you please describe your wedding?

**John:** It wasn't anything extravagant, though god knows his mother wanted it to be. We wore suits and had some friends come. Signed papers in a courthouse. We gave each other rings and promised to love one another for the rest of our lives.

John paused. He set his shoulders.

**John:** It was the happiest day of my life.

oOo

Six and a half hours later, John left Lacuna. He was given instructions to leave a spare key to his flat with Mary on the way out, and to make sure Mrs Hudson knew to not be alarmed later that night. He hung his head. There was so much about Sherlock that John had not thought about. Talking about him for such a long period of time brought it all back.

His mind no longer saw the crinkle Sherlock's nose got when John turned the telly on, or the little shift in his posture when John said something intelligent. Sherlock would give a slight nod whenever John was so exhausted he thought he'd fall over. That Sherlock yelled less if _QI_ was on than if it was _Top Gear_. All these things about him that John hadn't had any need to think about.

John, of course, still thought daily about Sherlock's eyes and their expressiveness. He could shut down behind a mask, but John was always able to look in his eyes and just _know_. John thought about the violinists callouses on Sherlock's fingers and the way his curls fought against a comb. Sherlock liked certain kinds of biscuits with certain teas. John was so in the habit of buying what Sherlock liked, that he still did it. Even though his own personal choices would vary.

John unlocked the door to 221B and stepped inside. He had enough time for dinner and some telly before going to sleep. As John was getting ready, Mary at Lacuna was filling in the blanks of John's cards. It was a pre-written message that only required a few names to be added. She filled out one for Sarah Sawyer, Mrs Hudson, Mike Stamford, Gregory Lestrade, Sylvia Anderson, Sally Donovan, Dimmock, Molly Hooper, and finally, Mycroft Holmes.

oOo

Dear (insert name here)

John Watson has had Sherlock Holmes erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again.

Thank You.

oOo

Before going to sleep, John opened the door to Sherlock's room. He had told Mary to have all of Sherlock's things sent to a Mr Mycroft Holmes instead of Lacuna just storing it away. She had made a note in his file and assured John that it was a common request and would be carried out. John had tried to explain that it was quite a lot of stuff, but she only nodded and told him that they were prepared to deal with all the furnishings of a house if necessary. John had left, trusting that they would ship even Sherlock's skull, Billy, to Mycroft.

This was the last time John would look into the room and see Sherlock. His heart gave a painful pull. Part of him didn't want to forget. It was the small, hopeful part of John that desperately wanted Sherlock to come back. But that side was quickly losing, and John was realizing that Sherlock was never returning to him.

John closed the door.

oOo

Somewhere, Mary set John's cards in the outgoing post box. The next morning, Mycroft would get his card and all of Britain's available resources would be turned towards Indonesia in a desperate effort to bring Sherlock Holmes back to London.


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson was a very simple man. He lived in 221B Baker Street with his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, and his cat. Mrs. Hudson had named her Pumpkin because of a small path of orange that broke through the otherwise grey fur. The cat was a present from his sister; the kind of present that Harry gives to people when she feels particularly bad about something. Usually it pertains to drinking and is given to those who bail her out of prison or pick her up from the other side of London. This time, John couldn't remember what he had done to earn the thank you gift.

John was a doctor. He had served with the RAMC, but was now a trauma surgeon. When he first returned, he was a clinical doctor, but found that it was not what he wanted. So he adopted more hours and applied to be a surgeon. He had gotten lucky.

Every morning, John would say goodbye to Pumpkin and walk or get a cab to St. Bart's Hospital. There was lovely girl who worked in the café there named Mary. He bought something from her every morning, just because she had a brilliant smile and called him Doc. John was walking with purpose on one particular Friday morning. He was going to ask her to dinner that night.

oOo

Sherlock remembered very clearly his first night back in London.

He had gotten off the plane at a private hangar at Heathrow International Airport. There, Sherlock was greeted by Mycroft, looking solemn and holding out a small card.

That night, Mycroft explained to him the chaos Sherlock's death left behind. John had gone down, and was nearing the end of his ability to love a painful memory. Mycroft explained Lacuna; how John had gone there, called, made an appointment, and woken up the next morning a new man.

Mycroft showed Sherlock the spare room to his flat where all of Sherlock's belongings had been delivered. Everything was boxed up and bore a label with the Lacuna logo in the bottom right corner.

Sitting on the mantel, beside Billy, was a small envelope. Before he even opened it, Sherlock knew what it was. The familiar gold ring rested heavy in his palms, heavier than anything he had ever borne. Sherlock closed his fist around it and refused to meet Mycroft's eye or acknowledge his words. Eventually, the platitudes ceased and the pair stood in silence.

Sleep was never easy for Sherlock, that first night especially. He wanted John in bed with him. He wanted to touch and taste and examine and everything. Instead, he was in an unfamiliar bed in one of Mycroft's spare rooms.

oOo

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the console once again. There on the CCTV feed before him, was John. He hadn't seen John in ages. Sherlock watched as John went up to the counter and purchased a coffee. The girl, a Mary Morstan, grinned and wrote Doc on his cup. Sherlock already had a background check run on her. Good family, good education, one mark against her for what seemed to be a drunken college adventure. She was dull, boring, not worth John's time.

They were talking. The CCTV had no audio. Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted Mycroft.

_That girl. How long has John known her? What is the nature of their relationship? Why is he asking her to dinner? Surely we are still married. SH_

_Legally you are dead. John is no longer bound by a legal marriage contract. Due to his procedure, he is also not bound by any emotional loyalties. MH_

_I want her dead. SH_

_I cannot do that. MH_

Sherlock sat back with a huff and nearly threw his phone across the room.

oOo

"I was wondering if you were busy for dinner tonight?" John asked. He was nervous about asking Mary. She had to be at least four years younger than him. What was he thinking? Of course a pretty girl like her wouldn't want to go out with him.

"I'd love to," Mary beamed.

"Brilliant," John managed, "Can I get you around 8?"

"Yes, that'd be lovely."

John smiled, nodded, and walked away; only to return a few seconds later. "Where exactly do you live?"

Mary laughed, "I was waiting for you to realize that." She wrote her address on the side of a napkin and passed it to him. "See you at 8."

"Ta," John replied, and turned to go to work.

At around six o'clock, John stepped out of the shower. He opened his closet and stared. _I need to expand my wardrobe away from jumpers_, he thought. Reaching in, John pulled out a button down shirt and a pair of denim trousers. He decided to go without a tie.

Turning, he walked out of his room and downstairs to feed Pumpkin. John liked his upstairs room. Reminded him of a loft he and Mike had once shared whilst still studying at Bart's. The empty downstairs room was nagging at him though. Maybe he could stand to move all of his things down.

"Mrs. Hudson," John called, "I'm going to be out for the night. I've fed Pumpkin."

Mrs. Hudson came shuffling down the hallway to meet John by the door. "Alright, dear. I'll see you later tonight. What's the special occasion?"

"I've got a date!" John announced triumphantly.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a horribly sad look.

John backtracked, "Don't worry. It's just one date. I won't be moving out any time soon." John kissed her cheek and was gone.

Mrs. Hudson still stood in the hall, the same horribly sad expression on her face. Her poor, poor boys.

oOo

John's date with Mary went amazingly. She was going to be a teacher and was just trying to get her footing. They both liked blues and John caught her humming Aretha. That night was followed a week later by another; that was followed the next day by yet another.

Sherlock watched the CCTV. He was on lockdown by Mycroft and could only see snippets of John's life. He was going mad, cooped up for over a week in Mycroft's suffocating flat. He wanted to go get his husband back.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, fingers flying and his attention still on John's blurry image.

_I want to see John. SH_

_I know you're looking at him right now. MH_

_You know what I mean. I refuse to stay here any longer. SH_

_Press conference in 3 hours; We can announce your return at the end. MH_

_I don't want a bloody conference. SH_

_The conference isn't for you; it is for the visiting representative from Italy. You are merely going to be a bullet point in the current affairs update at the end. MH_

_3 hours. Then I'm leaving. SH_

oOo_  
_

Sherlock paced around the room. Exactly 3 hours later, a sleek black car pulled up out front. He got in and headed for Baker Street.

Actually at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was crying and John couldn't figure out how to console her. They had just been having some tea and watching telly. Flipping channels, they paused on a man making an announcement about some Sherlock Holmes.

_Odd name_, John thought. Mrs. Hudson, however, burst into tears. John immediately wrapped and arm around her and attempted to soothe her enough to explain. The man on telly was still talking about the consulting detective, a position within the Met that John had never heard of before, and how he had apparently faked his death.

_Did Mrs. Hudson know him?_ John thought. No wonder she's in such a state. _A man she though was dead has just come back!_

Eventually, she stopped shaking.

"Are you alright now? Do you need me to get you anything?" John offered.

She just shooed him, "I'm fine, dear. I'm fine."

"Did you know the chap, then? This Holmes. I don't know why he's on the news. Never heard of him, myself."

"For a time. I first met him when he helped me solve a little domestic problem for me. Lovely boy, really. He used to make such a ruckus upstairs I-" Mrs. Hudson stopped herself. She hoped John wouldn't notice. He did.

"Upstairs? Here? Was he a tenant before I took the flat?" John looked mildly interested. "You never told me a dead bloke owned 221B before me.

"Must've slipped my mind. You know how it is with age," Mrs. Hudson looked terribly sad and began to shake again. John steeled himself for tears, but they never came. The woman just faintly shook, like one does when remembering a bad dream.

John's mobile went off and he looked down at the screen.

"I'm really sorry Mrs. Hudson, but do you mind if I take that? It's Mary," John asked.

Mrs. Hudson only nodded, so John clicked the green button.

"Hello?" he answered.

"John! Have you heard the news?" Mary asked. She sounded worried.

"Not that I know of," John wondered, "What news?"

"Sherlock Holmes. He's alive. Oh, I had to call because I guess this means that we'd be breaking up and I completely understand if that's wh-"

"What do you mean breaking up?" John stood, "Why would we break up just because some bloke pulled a stunt?"

Mary huffed, "I thought because of your re-" She cut off. There was a pause and Mary began again, speaking much slower, "John, I'll have to call you back. Something's come up. Terribly sorry. I'll phone you tomorrow."

The line went dead. John gave his mobile a look as though it was the phone's fault for Mary's abrupt departure.

oOo

Mary clicked her phone of and stared at the man on her doorstep. He was tall, had fair reddish hair, and was wearing quite an expensive looking grey suit.

"Thank you, Miss Morstan. We don't want to be giving Doctor Watson too much information, now do we?" the man said. "May I come in?"

He stepped past her and into her flat.

Mary shut the door and whirled around, "Who are you?"

The man grinned, "I hold a minor position in the British government. On this occasion, though, I am visiting you on some more domestic matters."

The tall man took a seat in her armchair and rested a long umbrella on the left arm.

"Do sit down," he said gesturing towards her sofa.

Mary looked warily at him, but sat down.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Related to Sherlock then?" Mary was hoping this conversation was not going in the direction she thought.

"Yes. His elder brother, actually," Mycroft crossed one leg over the other and looked her dead in the eye, "What do you know about the nature of Doctor Watson's relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

Mary fidgeted, "I know they were married. I used to read John's blog. He worshipped his husband, thought he was the most brilliant man alive. They used to have the most amazing adventures. All of the updated stopped when Sherlock died. John stopped coming in for coffee every morning. Then about a year and a half ago he started coming in again. 'Bout two or three months ago, John was back to his usual self. He came up and got coffee and flirted a little. That was that."

Mary looked sad, "Are you here to tell me Sherlock is reclaiming him?"

Mycroft inclined his head, "Not exactly, Miss Morstan. You see, John sought the services of a specialist and had all memory of Sherlock Holmes erased. John has no idea that he was once married and the name Sherlock Holmes is alien to him. He does not know the blog existed and he does not know of his involvement in my brother's work. To him, Sherlock Holmes was just a bloke on the news."

It took a moment, but Mary understood what Mycroft's words meant, "I can keep seeing John?"

"As long as he will have you. I daresay my brother will do his best to have his husband back."

"But Sherlock died!" Mary exclaimed. Apparently she was the jealous type. Pity Sherlock was as well. "Sherlock died and left John alone and horribly upset. He can't just expect to return from the dead and have John drop everything to be with him again."

"I'm afraid that is exactly what my brother wants. I am merely here to inform you of what is to come."

With that Mycroft stood, "If you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend." He showed himself out.

Mary sat on her sofa and contemplated the reality of dating a married man. _Did it still count if the married man in question didn't actually know?_ She thought.

oOo

Sherlock's cab pulled up outside the familiar front door of Baker Street. He paid and stepped out. Just standing there once again made his insides churn.

He stepped up and rang the doorbell. After a moment, Mrs. Hudson opened it and gave a small cry.

"Sherlock! Oh you're back, my darling," Mrs. Hudson cried. She pulled him tightly into her arms, not minding that he was twice her size. Sherlock hugged her tightly back. Sherlock had difficulty showing affection for other people, even showing John had initially been a struggle. Never with Mrs. Hudson, though. He went willingly into her hugs even when they first met.

"Sherlock," she began, "John's done something. Now, mind you he was in a right state when you left. Shame on you for leaving your husband like that!" With this she swatted Sherlock's arm. "He was horrible for such a long time and then one day he goes to the doctors and the next morning he's right as rain. It wasn't right. They sent me this peculiar card and-"

"Yes, I know. Mycroft received a message from this _Lacuna_ as well," Sherlock said. The word nearly spat out. Those people were something he would have to deal with later.

All Sherlock wanted was to see John again. Alive and well and in the flesh. He had seen the shock on John's face through his mind's eye. Sherlock was expecting a punch or yelling or crying. Something. But that little card had changed everything. Now, all Sherlock wanted was to be acknowledged.

John walked to the door, "Mrs. Hudson? Who is it?" His face appeared from Mrs. Hudson's door and Sherlock forgot to breathe. Breathing was boring anyway.

John looked the same, but so different. Sherlock could see lines on his face from grief and new crinkles around his eyes. There was the shade of a limp that was returning to John's walk, but his military posture remained the same. His eyes were still a gorgeous blue. The best blue Sherlock had ever seen.

John extended his hand. "Doctor John Watson," he said with a smile.

"Sh-" Sherlock shook his head, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Ahh. So you're the bloke on the telly this morning. Quite a stunt you pulled there, letting people think you're dead," John shook his head and gave Sherlock the sideways smile he always wore when he though he was being funny, "I bet your Missus appreciated it."

Sherlock's heart seized up. He gave a dry chuckle that was devoid of any emotion.

_Leaving my home was the hardest decision I have ever had to make. Leaving my love behind hurt more than dying a million times over._ Sherlock thought.

"I have no one," Sherlock said aloud. At this, Mrs. Hudson gave another sad little groan and pulled Sherlock close once again.

"Well you've got one person who seems to deeply care about you," John said with a smile. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen Mrs. Hudson so excited like this. "Care for some tea, Mr Holmes?"

"Sherlock, please," Sherlock corrected, "And I would love tea."

John immediately said, "Cream two sugars."

Sherlock perked up immediately. John remembered. He could recall how Sherlock took his tea. Could he then recall more things about their relationship?

But the moment passed when John shook his head and smiled, "Or really any way you prefer, I suppose. I'm usually partial to tea just as it is."

"No, no, cream two sugars would be perfect, thanks."

Sherlock followed John and Mrs. Hudson back into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. He took a seat at the table and marvelled at how ordinary everything felt. The kitchen hadn't changed a bit. It could have been just like any other time he and John had tea with Mrs. Hudson. Except for John, all those days never existed.

John set the kettle to boil and sat down at the table across from where Mrs. Hudson was still clinging to Sherlock.

"So Mr Holmes, what did you do before faking your death?" John said, once again bearing his "I'm so clever" smile.

"I was a consulting detective," Sherlock replied. His mind was thrown back to their cab ride together when he first explained what he did to John. It was so mystifying, then. Sherlock loved the awed look on John's face just as much as he thought John loved hearing Sherlock deduce.

That was their very first case. John had killed a man to save Sherlock's life. Sherlock wondered if, even now with no memory, if John was still the sort of man who would kill to save a man he barely knew.

"What's a consulting detective then?" John inquired politely. _His face is still so expressive_, Sherlock thought.

"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me." Sherlock tried to pull the shroud of arrogance around himself to mimic the demeanour he had when first saying those words. He wasn't sure if it worked. Going by the slight raise in John's eyebrows, the arrogance was noted.

John waited a beat before asking, "The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock smiled, "No, they don't do they?" He wondered if it would be cheating to tell John his life story when so much of it was information John had told Sherlock himself. Sherlock examined John for a moment in an effort to separate what he could deduce from what he knew due to outside sources.

Sherlock sat up and began, "You had a disappointing lunch in the hospital café this afternoon, unusual because you usually take a bagged lunch. I can tell you're a trauma surgeon and that you served in Afghanistan with the RAMC. You had a psychosomatic limp that has recently re-pronounced itself. Your therapist is concerned about you, but you get the sense that she is holding back something that is hugely important. A nagging feeling in the back of your mind.

You have a bullet wound in your left shoulder that doesn't so much as hurt as just produce a dull, numbing ache. Gave up on physical therapy ages ago. Now, though, you want to try and get that under control again." Sherlock paused. "Shall I continue?"

John shook his head, "Brilliant. That was quite the impressive display. How did you know?"

"Napkin from the hospital with mustard on the corner is poking out of your jacket hanging in the hall, stuffed in there when you didn't have a free hand to pay." That one definitely was cheating. Sherlock knew John's lunch habits, previously. Didn't mean he wasn't able to deduce as much without prior knowledge.

Sherlock pressed on, "Steady, smaller hands, surgeon. You're using a slightly battered RAMC mug. You introduced yourself to me as doctor. Doctor in the military then. Most likely occupation for former RAMC doctor in London? Trauma Surgeon or teacher. I can see your limp in how you walk, but you stand without asking for a chair and sat with no problem. You handed me my tea across the table with your right hand, even though you have calluses that suggest your left is dominant. You don't normally have to do such things, but the chill outside is agitating your shoulder so you're trying to avoid extending it and risk pulling something uncomfortable."

"And how do you know about the therapist?"

"You're a war hero with a psychosomatic limp; of course you've got a therapist." Sherlock sat back with a satisfied look on his face.

Mrs. Hudson was beaming and muttering something along the mines of "Such a clever boy."

"That was extraordinary," John said.

"Really?"

"Yes, of course! I've never seen anything like it. It's no wonder you work with the Met. I'm sure you're a godsend."

"Not all the time," Sherlock grinned. He remembered what John used to refer to as his "off days." The smile faded quickly. John didn't remember that.

"I've got to be going," John said and stood. He extended a hand towards Sherlock, "It was great to meet you, Sherlock." He turned to Mrs. Hudson, "Give me a ring the next time he stops by for tea, yeah?"

John gave one last smile and left the room.

Sherlock visibly slumped in his chair. He slowly drank the tea John had made him. Whether he was conscious of it or not, John still made tea exactly how Sherlock liked it.

"How are you then, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, "Dreadful what's going on between you two. He can't remember you at all."

"I know." Sherlock didn't want to think about it now. "I need to be going Mrs. Hudson. I need to find a flatshare again. I can't possibly keep living with my brother. I don't know if this version of John would be quite so open to sharing a flat with a freak."

_Freak_ slid off Sherlock's tongue and left the taste of bad cold medicine behind. Funny how things change when one loses all the love in one's life.

"Alright, Sherlock. You get yourself sorted. I still have C open if you want it."

"I think I'll get a small place for now. Go back to work for a bit. I need to study this Lacuna place and see what they did to John's head. I don't know the procedure or if my sustained presence would compromise his memory entirely."

Sherlock stood and left his tea half empty. He leaned down and kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek. Then, he turned and left.


	3. Chapter 3

The lights in a dingy one bedroom flat were about as shite as was to be expected. Flats in London in general couldn't be held to the highest of standards. Sherlock didn't care, though. He wasn't planning on being there for long.

Sherlock sat at a small desk with his laptop before him. He had read every page of Lacuna's website and was surrounded by stolen neurology textbooks from Bart's. There had to be something here about the effects of a patient interacting with the subject of their procedure.

Sherlock already had plans to go pay the good Doctor Mierzwiak a visit the next day. He wanted a first-hand look at the tools Lacuna used on John. He wanted to see the dingy office where John first began slipping away from himself.

Sherlock kept scrolling through articles online that detailed memory in every possible; various things for parents on when a baby first begins to recognize and remember; group support and personal stories from dementia or Alzheimer's patients and their families; letters a person with short term memory loss wrote to themselves every day so that they remembered the day before. He had spent the past five hours reading through these things, and was prepared to read for five more.

Anything to distract himself from what he knew John was doing.

Halfway across London, John was holding open the door of a cab for one Miss Mary Morstan. She was sliding in daintily and he was following her in with a smile. It had been a week since John met the newly alive Sherlock Holmes. The man had fascinated John for that week. Tonight, however, was all about Mary.

It was only their fourth date, but John looked forwards to it like it was the very first. Mary just had this charming effect on everyone. She made John feel like the centre of everything. She smiled and lines pulled at her cheeks and the corners of her eyes. Every smile John had ever seen on her was genuine, reached her emerald eyes and made them shine. Mary laughed and John genuinely believed it. Even his cheap jokes pulled at the corners of her lips.

They sat across from one another at the table; a candle was lit between them. John thought it made the evening more romantic.

"So tell me, John, does date four give a girl privileges?" Mary asked. Whenever she asked little questions that could go severely well or severely bad for John, her nose wrinkled with an ill-concealed smirk.

John set his menu aside and folded his hands over it. "I think you already know the answer to that. As far as the specifications of your _ahem_… privileges, I think I shall leave it up to you."

John could tell by her smile that he had answered correctly.

"Good, because my mum asked if I would bring my new boyfriend around for dinner after my sister cleverly let slip that I was seeing a _doctor_." Mary over-exaggerated the word and rolled her eyes.

John chuckled, "That would be fine. I'd actually enjoy meeting some of your family."

"Good, because I already told them you and I would be over their house Friday at seven for dinner."

John pretended to be put upon, "Well you could've at least asked. What if I was busy? What if I had a life to save? You know, my being a _doctor_ and all." He drew himself up and raised his nose high in the air.

Mary smiled and her eyes lit up, "My apologies. I did not realize that you were too busy being an everyday hero to have humble dinner with my family of regular citizens." She rested her hand across her breast, mocking innocence and awe.

"It's fine," John replied haughtily, "Not everyone was made to fit into the mould of perfection."

After a heartbeat, they both broke down into giggles. Mary ducked her head and raised her hand before her eyes. The image of John with his nose in the air and his chest puffed out like an over-compensating uni kid was just brilliant. John raised the menu and made himself a makeshift shield from Mary. She had given him big, round, adoring eyes and acted like she was going to go faint from the sheer force of his "heroism" every time she ended a sentence.

They collected themselves, came out from hiding, and shared a private smile. They didn't have words for it, but both understood that they were comfortable together; an easy couple who could make one another laugh even in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

After dinner, they decided to walk rather than take a cab. Mary's flat wasn't a horrible distance away, and the night was brisk enough to keep them up a while longer.

John held Mary's hand and they walked the first few blocks in comfortable silence.

"What did you do in the army?" Mary asked. The question wasn't trying to be intrusive. Mary looked up at John with an honesty he had not even gotten from his therapist.

It took him a moment to answer. Mary seemed to be willing to give him all the time in the world if he asked for it.

"I was a doctor with the RAMC as you already know," John began, "I was shot while attempting to save another man's life." John paused. He was remembering the sand and the sun and the heat of all of that mixed with the warmth in his shoulder when the blood spread outwards form his wound. "I was the only Captain in the unit, also the only man who had medical training. I guess, at the time, I wasn't strictly speaking their doctor. I was just a Captain who happened to have a medical degree."

"I thought you were a RAMC doctor though? You can be both?" Mary interrupted. She immediately looked apologetic for interrupting, but John didn't mind.

"You're not really supposed to be both. I trained to be a RAMC doctor and spent a lot of my time in military base hospitals throughout bases that were either British or American. One of my hospitals was attacked, though. I showed myself proficient in combat and they moved me from just being a doctor, to being a Captain. Once I was transferred, the doctor bit was just a perk. They assigned me a unit to work with, and I moved away from the hospital to a combat zone."

"Are you allowed to tell me where you were?" Mary asked. They were standing at a light waiting to cross and Mary looped her arm through John's, pulling him closer. John wasn't sure if it was mean to be for her or for him.

"I was shot while in the Kunar Province. I'm not sure where I was treated, but I'm pretty sure it was somewhere else in the N2KL. Probably Nangarhar. I was in the hospital for about two weeks before they were able to get my papers and everything situated. Then they sent me back to London with a pension and a cane."

They walked a bit more in silence before Mary asked, "You never talk about your family." It wasn't a question so much as an observation.

John was silent for a moment before forcing a smile. "My family and I are a difficult subject. I have a sister, Harry. She's … different." John gave a humourless chuckle. "Harry, as far as I know, is still separated from her partner, Clara. Harry has a thing with drinking." John stopped and kept walking along.

Mary waited a few steps before realizing that John was not going to volunteer any more information. She didn't want to pry, so the silence stretched on.

They reached her flat and stopped outside.

"I had a really good time, John," Mary said. She gave him an expectant look.

John grinned, "I'm glad."

Mary continued to give John a slightly expectant look. She wasn't sure whether it was a sense of honour or if he was slightly unsure, but John had not kissed her yet. They touched and there was a clear level of intimacy between them, but John had not kissed her properly yet. It was all reduced to slight brushes against her cheek and even those fleeting.

John leaned down and once again kissed Mary's cheek. She turned her face towards his and captured his lips. Mary kissed the way she smiled, slowly and with enthusiasm. She gently swiped her tongue along John's lower lip. At first he kissed her back and pressed his body closer. Almost as though he was continuing her movement, John turned his head away and Mary's lips brushed across the light stubble on his cheek.

John wouldn't meet her eyes, "I'm sorry. I don't… it's been a while."

Mary nodded, "It's ok. I don't mean to be pushing you…I just thought you'd want it." Mary took his hand and held it tight in John's. "You're alright, though. Yes?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." John push a smile forwards (_The second time that night_, his thoughts supplied). "I'll see you Friday. I'm looking forwards to meeting everyone."

John stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned to hail a cab home. He didn't feel like walking home alone in the cold.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to delete the CCTV footage from his memory.

John, standing there, kissing that woman. John turning his head. Their resulting smiles. John walking away alone.

John's lips used to only be allowed on Sherlock's skin. That woman had no claim to them, to him. She was an intruder, an interloper attempting to steal what belonged to Sherlock.

_She can't have him_, Sherlock thought.

Even though Sherlock despised the physical and psychological imperative for sleep, his body craved it. He had indeed spent the extra five hours still trying to learn about memory science. Two of those hours, however, was hacking into the security feed and watching John kiss Mary.

Sherlock wanted to kill her. He knew that John, even if his memory was intact, would not be pleased with Sherlock if he committed a homicide. Especially if the victim was pretty. John had such a soft spot for the pretty ones.

Sherlock rolled over and stared at the ceiling of his dingy little flat. There was no wide crack above him. He could still picture the blemish on the ceiling of his room of 221B. Would new John be sleeping in that room now? Does he have plans to get a new flatmate? Is someone else lying in bed with John and staring at the ceiling?

No matter how hard Sherlock tried to push these thoughts away, they chased after him.

He got up out of bed and opened his violin. Sherlock had not played in such a long time. He tuned it and tucked it under his chin. He drew the bow down on the E string; closing his eyes to be absorbed in the note. Slowly pulling down along all four strings, the perfectly tunes fifths rang out. They filled the small flat with something akin to company.

Sherlock played well into the night, and indeed well into the next morning. When he finally collapsed in bed, thoughts of John were mixed among sharps and flats and vibratos and all were weaved through the morose tone of a lonely soul.

**Tyger! Tyger! burning bright**

"Wakey wakey eggs and bakey!" came a sing-song voice.

Sherlock groaned and shut his eyes against the lights that found themselves thrust into his face.

"Sherlock, sweetheart, I know you're in there!" the voice came again. "Now there's no need to be afraid. I really am dead and gone. How tragic for my poor Sebastian. I do hope the darling is doing alright. Considering he can finally show you this tape, I assume he is just fine."

The voice stopped and was replaced by a much gruffer tone, "I'll just give you a moment to come to your senses, eh Pretty Boy?"

Sebastian Moran leaned against the side of a wide, polished wood bar. He had a glass of meticulously aged single malt whiskey resting on the bar close to him. A gun that was nearly as polished as the bar rested on his knee.

Sherlock rolled his head around to take in his surroundings.

The room was large. Its staple features were the bar, the man at the bar, and the large television that bore the face of James Moriarty.

"You're the Tiger, then?" Sherlock dared, "Your name is feared nearly as much as Moriarty's."

Moran just gave a shrug. Flattery didn't appeal to him as much as it had to Jim.

Sherlock was getting feeling back in his limbs and extremities. He was expertly bound to a cheap, metal chair. Corded ropes held his hands to the sides of the chair and tape bound him on top of that. Sherlock though he must look like a victim in one of John's James Bond films.

"Tell me, Tiger, why run from me half-way around the globe just to double back and show me a video of your boyfriend?" Sherlock challenged.

Moran shook his head and gave no emotion away. _Give a man a little bit of blood back in his balls and suddenly he thinks he's a lion again_, Moran thought.

"It's pathetic," Sherlock continued, "You, running from London. You're far too intelligent to think I'd just lie down and die so easily."

"It wasn't about intelligence, Holmes." Moran took another sip of the whiskey before continuing, "I like to play with my food before I eat it. Also this stupid fuckin' video Jim insisted I show you, was in some locked box. He left me a goddamned map to find it."

Sherlock wondered why Moran would tell him all of this, be so honest. He had never met the man, but everything about him said ruthless killer. In truth, Sherlock could see the ruthless killer that rested in Moran, but it wasn't the only thing that was there. In some twisted way, Moran reminded Sherlock of John.

"I should probably let you know now, Holmes, I'm going to kill you. I've got a serious grudge against you and a debt to repay a dead man." Moran shrugged like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"I hope you don't expect me to roll over and offer my stomach."

"Not a chance. You'd be no fun if you didn't fight at least a little bit."

They sat in silence. Sherlock stared at Moran and tried to figure the man out. He was tall. As tall as Sherlock at least. He had sand coloured hair and at least two days' growth on his face. He dressed like he worked in construction. He held himself with a military bearing much the same way John did. Moran wasn't as open or as expressive as John was, but there was a certain level of nonchalance that laced through his every movement; as though he had nowhere to go on a Sunday morning.

_Stop it. This man is nothing like John._ Sherlock thought. That wasn't quite true, though. Sherlock still hated Moriarty and subsequently anyone attached to him, but it would be a lie if he said Moran was nothing like John. They both were military, among the top in their field and utterly fearless. Though they had different loyalties, they were both fiercely attached to them; each willing to kill or be killed for what they believed in.

"Are you ready to watch Jim's little video? He did love the theatrics. I never understood why he couldn't just kill someone and be done." Moran backtracked, "I mean someone who was unimportant. Not you, of course. You're fun. I should have clarified that I only like playing with my food if it is really worth savouring." He sounded apologetic, as though a quick death was an insult to Sherlock.

The video licked back on.

Moriarty was seated in front of a plain white screen. He reclined in a deep brown, leather arm chair and was wearing one of his bespoke suits. A smile stretched across his lips.

"Hello Sherlock," Moriarty said, "I'm so glad you were able to take time out of your busy schedule to come and visit me and mine. Sadly, I'm otherwise occupied at the moment. But I'm sure Sebbie is keeping you company just fine."

Sherlock turned towards Moran and raised an eyebrow. Moran just took another sip of whiskey and gave a dismissive wave.

"I'm dead, Sherlock. Terrible that our little game had to come to an end. The only way you're watching this is if Sebbie ran around the world trying to find it." Jim gave a wave. "Thanks, sweetie."

"I want to thank you, too, Sherlock. The game was ever so fun. You even saved some lives. I'm sure your good doctor was pleased about that. I did have future plans to see just how far you'd go for dead John's sake. Pity all the fun ended. This video is my farewell tour. My last huzzah if you will."

Jim stood and walked out of frame. The camera wobbled as he picked it up and rested it lens-down on the ground. There was a shuffling of sound and Jim's voice could clearly be heard giving directions to people doing the heavy lifting.

The camera lifted back up and Sherlock wasn't surprised at all to find Jim standing in the middle of 221B.

The camera swivelled around with Jim's focus, as though seeing the world from his vantage point.

"You see, Sherlock, I may be gone, but that doesn't mean I can't still haunt you." Jim began walking down the hallway, the camera still held to show his point of view. He reached Sherlock's bedroom door and pushed inside.

"It's so clean in here, Sherlock. Does John clean up your little messes?" He tosses himself on Sherlock's bed and turns the camera around to face him. "Nice crack you've got above your bed. Might want to get that fixed before water starts leaking in."

Jim was quiet for a minute, the camera still held above his face. Moran had a feeling Jim was going to drop it on his face. Then again, he might not. Not for this scene; it required so much focus.

"Sherlock." Jim looked dead into the camera. "I'll even make this last game easy for you."

Then Jim began to sing. "One for the government who knows too much. One for the peace keeper he does touch. One for the lady who cleans the house. One for the body girl, quiet as a mouse. The last for the doctor, lonely at home. He sits in the silence; the ticking goes on. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick."

The video cuts off and Sherlock is numb.

Moran downs the last of his drink. "Don't worry your pretty head. I've been given very explicit instructions. No one is going to blow up today." He set the glass on the bar again and withdrew a syringe from his pocket.

Sherlock began to struggle.

"I'm really sorry about this, but I've got to drug you. I'm fairly confident that if I didn't drug you and just let you sit and think for a few hours, you'd be out of here and I'd be dead. Considering that I'd like to keep on living, you get drugged whenever I move you around. It's not a personal thing. Self-reservation you see."

Sherlock struggled, even as Moran sank the plunger in and his brain got fuzzy, Sherlock struggled. He wanted to scream in frustration and threatened, but his tongue was heavy and refused to move in his mouth. Minutes (or was it just seconds) later, Sherlock realized he had stopped struggling. He hung limply in the chair.

Moran began to untie the knots with a practiced hand. He was careful to only let Sherlock feel the rope releasing him. He knew Sherlock could replicate a knot easily and didn't want to be giving him extra hints about where each joint was.

When Sherlock was finally freed from the chair, Moran hoisted him easily over one shoulder and carried him to an adjacent room. It had a bed. Small and rather sparse, the bed was the only thing worth noticing. Moran flopped Sherlock on it. He put one hand under Sherlock's chin and directed his face towards a camera.

"Do you see that camera there?" Moran asked.

Sherlock blinked.

"Why don't you blink twice for yes?"

Sherlock blinked twice.

"Good. That camera is me. If you do anything I think is subversive or manipulative, I will see it and you will lose digits of your fingers up to each knuckle. Five fingers on each hand and nine knuckles that I can cut at. Starting with the hand you use to so lovingly to hold down each note on the violin. Rest up. I've got a big day planned for tomorrow."

Moran pats him on the shoulder and leaves. The locks click into place on the door. Sherlock knew they were far more advanced than the understatement of the house really let on.

The drugs slowly rocked him to sleep. Sherlock dreamed of his friends dying. Of John dying.


	4. Chapter 4

The front door to Lacuna was grey and bore a single gold nameplate to tell passer-by what was there.

Sherlock pushed in and took in the sorry sight that the waiting room made. The walls were a dull beige and the chairs were a worn version of what once was a royal blue. A small man sat in the corner and was staring into space. He didn't even register Sherlock's entrance.

There was a window through which a cluttered office space could be seen. A young woman with blonde hair sat at the desk. She held a beige, corded phone between her ear and shoulder and was nodding whilst writing.

"Yes of course," the young woman reassured, "I will be sure to tell Doctor Mierzwiak when he returns." She stopped to listen and carried on nodding as though the person on the telephone could see her, "Yes. Ok. Thank you. Have a nice day."

The phone clicked back on the receiver and her attention was diverted to Sherlock.

"How can I help you, sir?" she asked.

Sherlock stepped closer. "I need to see Doctor Mierzwiak immediately."

"I'm sorry, sir. Doctor Mierzwiak is out on his lunch break just now. Can I take a note down or do you intend to wait for him to return?"

"Where did you say he went to lunch?"

"I didn't."

Sherlock scowled. Ridiculous people. "What is your name?"

"Mary Svevo, sir. Now about that note. Was there something you wanted to tell the doctor? If you needed to make an appointment, I can do that for you now."

"No."

Sherlock turned and left. He hailed a cab.

Once back at his flat, Sherlock opened his laptop. The CCTV was already up because he had watched John walk to work that morning. He switched cameras and time periods. Sherlock watched Dr Mierzwiak leave Lacuna and hail a cab. He had stopped at a little restaurant for lunch and taken a seat at a window table. Five minutes later a woman walked in and joined him.

Sherlock glanced at the time stamp in top right corner. He could catch them. Sherlock pulled on his greatcoat and left.

The door to the restaurant was pulled open, bells on the door chiming wildly. A tall, slender man with dark curls sauntered in and turned towards their table.

Howard Mierzwiak turned to his wife, Hollis, in confusion, "Do you know that man?"

"No!" she exclaimed, "I thought he was one of your patients!"

The man stopped at their table, grabbed a chair, and seated himself between them.

"Hello," he said. His sharp eyes turned to the doctor and just stared.

Dr Mierzwiak was beginning to get very uncomfortable when his wife demanded, "Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Why are you sitting here Mister Holmes?"

"Did you know, Madame, that your husband is cheating on you with his receptionist?"

"I-How _dare_ you-Just who do you think-What the hell is that supposed to mean?!" she sputtered. "Howard, what is he talking about?" She rounded on her husband.

"I have no idea Hollis. Look at him. He's clearly a mad man!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and waved a waiter over, "Water."

The boy nodded and went off to fetch it.

"Doctor Mierzwiak, you had a patient about four months ago by the name of John Watson, do you remember him?" Sherlock asked. He leaned forwards as though to pull the answer out by force.

"I am not at liberty to discuss my patients, Mister Holmes. Surely you know that. I'd like you to leave now or I will be forced to call the authorities."

"No need," Sherlock waved. I know the owner here, he wouldn't let me be arrested unless I summoned the Yard here myself. Don't waste your breath. John Watson. Do you remember him?"

"Again, I am not at liberty to-"

"Hollis wasn't it?" Sherlock asked, rounding to face the wife. He took in her appearance. Her hair was frizzy, wild. Her clothing was a year out of style but kept up. She looked like a woman who was once beautiful.

"What do you want with me?" Hollis clasped her hands in her lap.

"I know your husband is cheating on you because of the hairs on his jacket."

Howard looked down at his black coat.

"What about the hairs on his jacket?" Hollis asked. She didn't really want to know.

"They are from a white cat. The two of you, however, do not have a cat due to your allergy. The young receptionist, Mary, does. In fact, she has a picture of herself holding the cat resting on her desk. Her clothes also bear the same white hairs that are on your husband. Tell me, Hollis, needing to sneeze more lately? Might be because of your allergy and the fact that your husband's clothing is tracking cat all about your home. Where from? The bed of the receptionist of course."

Sherlock turned smugly to Howard, "Do you remember John Watson?"

The pair looked stunned.

Hollis began to cry. "You told me you were done with her. Said she was just b-being nice to you! You promised me there was nothing between you and she just needed a job to help pay for her studies!"

"Don't cry love, I didn't lie to you. I swear I've never been to her flat."

"How do you know she lives in a flat, Doctor Mierzwiak? Not at home with her parents or in a house with other students or a hotel room?"

"I-well-I assumed," Howard sputtered.

"You said flat because you knew she lived in a flat on her own? How did you know? Probably because you've been shagging her in it. John Watson. Remember him?"

Hollis stood, "Don't come home tonight, Howard. Maybe that slut will give you a place to sleep!" She left, tissue still clutched in her hand.

Howard had stood and moved to follow her out, but Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

"I suggest, Doctor Mierzwiak, that you tell me what I want to know." Sherlock's voice was pitched down and he stared at the doctor as though he intended to kill.

"Yes" Howard said distantly, "Yes I'll do that." He sat back down with a thump.

"Will it harm John if I try and make him remember me?"

"No," Dr Mierzwiak said, still in a distant voice, "Patients can remember if triggered properly. It doesn't happen often, but it isn't unheard of."

"Will it hurt him?" Sherlock pressed on.

"No, shouldn't hurt him at all. It would be quite a shock though, the brain suddenly having access to information that it didn't remember before. I daresay he'd have quite a difficult headache for a while. He would need time to cope and process information and sort it all together. Might need a spot of therapy."

"Will there be long-term effects to his memory if he remembers?"

"No. Like I said. He'd just have a headache, be a bit knackered for a while, and then most likely need some counselling. The difficult part is finding the trigger that would bring it all back. Even I don't know what it could be. It's really different for each person."

Sherlock stood. He turned to leave. As an afterthought, Sherlock threw forty quid on the table. He knew John wouldn't have been able to help himself. Sherlock took John to a restaurant during a case. They interrupted a date the victim's brother had been on. John paid for their meal.

Sherlock left, the bells clanging wildly behind him.

**After the Fall**

John sat in bed and listened to the rain outside. It always seemed to be raining, about to rain, or just stopped raining. London weather was reliable in that sense. No wonder Mycroft carried an umbrella.

He had woken up from a nightmare. It was only snippets that he could remember, but they always ended the same. With Sherlock dying. That was the worst part, really. The part that mattered most.

He was in ragged sweat pants and an old t-shirt bearing the logo for the RAMC across the chest. The clock on John's nightstand told him it was 3:23 am.

It was a Sunday.

In four hours and thirty-seven minutes, John would get up and take a shower. He would put on nice trousers and a jacket. Then, he would sit and talk to Sherlock's headstone.

That was all to come. As it was, John was lying in bed listening to the rain. He thought about all the things he would tell Sherlock. All the things he wanted to tell him.

_I didn't tell him I loved him enough_, John bemoaned. _I should have told him twice a day and three times when he was in a bad mood. _

John's list of things he should have done only got longer.

_Should have let him stay home from Christmas with his family the year before we got married._

_Should have made sure he knew how much I needed, still do need, him._

_Should have bought him that set of beakers for his birthday even though they were expensive. _

_Should have let him feed the ducks in the park to examine their competitive nature when presented with food even though I know he just wanted to feed them. _

_Should have stayed at the hospital. _

_Should have seen through the cold lies he told to get me to leave._

_Should have seen through the lie about Mrs Hudson, known there was a problem when he didn't react._

_Shouldn't have yelled at him like that._

_Should have told him I loved him._

_Should have been there to stop him._

_Should have done something more._

_Should have told him I loved him. _

Ella told John that very first session they had after the event, that regret was normal. She told him he would spend a lot of time thinking about what could have been or things he should have changed. She told him it was normal to want to bargain with the universe. _If I do this good thing, you'll give him back to me. _

John knew all of this. He was a doctor. Coping with grief was something that every doctor was given training in due to the nature of the profession. For a doctor in the military, coping with grief was an everyday exercise. Every time John lost a man, whether it was preventable or not, he had to at least check in with a counsellor on base.

That all stopped when he was moved out of a real hospital to a Captain leading other soldiers on missions. It was still the same, though. If anyone in their unit was lost, even if John was not trying to save the person, there was grief. Every man mourned their losses and had their own ways of coping.

Grief was not an unfamiliar concept to John.

Losing Sherlock was so far beyond that.

Sherlock's death was an ache in John's soul and the loss of one of the key components of John's life.

Even the rain on the window reminded John of the night Sherlock tried to photograph and count every raindrop that raced down the window pane. John had lain in bed and prayed the camera flash would stop and Sherlock would just return to bed. There was nothing important about raindrop tracks. Sherlock had yelled that he was bored and needed something and would John please just go back to sleep.

In the end, John had sat up with Sherlock all night. He wrote down things that Sherlock thought were important. The next day, John had taken the photos of raindrops to be developed.

John wondered where those photos had ended up. Probably in the rubbish or buried among Sherlock's clutter.

John rolled over to look at the empty half of their bed. _If I didn't complain about those pictures, maybe none of this would have happened._ He knew how ridiculous it sounded. He knew how completely unrelated the two events were and how that night had no effect on Sherlock's death. Still though, he would bargain anything he had with the universe if it brought Sherlock back.

_Maybe if I told him I loved him._

Sherlock was once again back in his little one bedroom flat with his computer out.

_I'll need the analysis of John, any notes Mierzwiak took on John, details of the procedure, credit card records of Mierzwiak, phone records for his cell phone, home phone and office, everything. Get me everything. SH_

_I'll see what I can do. MH_

The next morning, a box was delivered to Sherlock's door. In it, he found a USB drive containing details of John's procedure, notes Dr Mierzwiak had made, and the audio from an interview. On another USB, Sherlock found Mierzwiak's research; all of his notes on memory, published papers, figures and facts, data from trial runs. The last contained some of Mierzwiak's personal information. Much of it was redacted, but Sherlock was still able to piece things together.

At the bottom of the box was a note.

_Sherlock, I do hope you are being sensible about this. Here is the information you requested. Have caution, little brother, things may not always work out as you want. – Mycroft_

Sherlock dropped the note back in the box. Mycroft's note was the least of his concerns. All Sherlock wanted was to listen to the interview.

He opened the file and introductions began to play. Sherlock didn't move for the next six hours.

John pushed open the door to his flat. He leaned down to pet Pumpkin on his way in. Dinner with Mary's family had been a stressful ordeal and he wanted nothing more than some tea and to go to bed. The paperwork from the hospital still sat dejected on the kitchen table. John was off tomorrow. He could deal with it then.

John made himself some tea, fed Pumpkin, and sat in his worn, cloth, arm chair. An old rerun of _Top Gear_ was on. Not his favourite, but certainly better than some other things on telly.

"John was that you?" Mrs. Hudson's voice came up from the hall.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Did you need something?" John called back. _Please don't need anything_, he thought.

"I wanted to tell you that Sherlock is round for tea again if you want to come down."

The mention of Sherlock piqued John's interest. "I'll be down in a moment."

John switched off the telly, picked up his cuppa, and wandered downstairs.

Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock were in her sitting room. Both already supplied with tea and smiles. John kissed Mrs. Hudson's cheek and shook Sherlock's hand before joining them.

"Are you alright dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, "You look a bit worn."

"I'm fine. Had dinner with Mary's family tonight and it didn't go as well as I'd hoped."

That was an understatement. Mary, her sister, and her mother had been lovely. The three of them were so similar; welcoming, warming, all smiled and fresh baked jammy dodgers. Her brother and father, however, were not quite so excited to see John.

"I'm sorry for it," Mrs. Hudson consoled. She gave John's knee a pat and took another sip of tea.

"What did her brother day to make you so angry?" Sherlock asked.

"How did you know it was her brother?" There was clipped edge to John's voice.

Sherlock knew it was anger towards the previous situation rather than anger towards his question. "Bruise on your wrist where he grabbed you. The angle and pressure looks as though he grabbed your wrist in an effort to stop you punching him."

John couldn't help but smile, Sherlock made it sound so simple.

"Yeah, it was her brother," John conceded, "He was saying some uproarious things about the military and people who serve. I had asked him to stop multiple times. I told him it was an honourable thing. Poor Mary, she looked horrified at some of the things that came out of his mouth. Kept apologising and saying she didn't know where it came from. Mary's dad even jumped in with a few comments or to encourage the bastard. Her sister left the room and her mum was trying to calm her dad down. You'll be pleased to know I landed that punch, though."

John chuckled once and smirked, "Bloke just didn't know when to stop."

Mrs. Hudson tsked and Sherlock gave John a smug grin of approval.

"Mary and I left soon after. Cab dropped her off at hers before leaving me here."

"_Fucking faggots too busy jerking each other off to actually fucking fight. Shouldn't let any of them in the service" Mary's brother had loudly proclaimed, "They're corruptin' the lot of you. Bloody sickening. Government should ban all of them. I bet you've seen it, John. Fucking idiot doctor shouldn't treat any faggots. Or if you do treat 'em do it and then discharge 'em." Mary's brother was well past one too many. He had about five too many, and the booze was making him foolish. _

"It doesn't matter anymore," John said. He shook his head and smiled brightly at Sherlock. "How have you been? I haven't seen you around."

"Fine. Nothing new."

"The press leave you alone yet? I suppose even coming back from the dead can wear off."

"Something like that." Mycroft had sufficiently taken care of the press problem.

"Get anything on? Didn't you say you used to work with the Yard?"

"Yes, I did. I haven't actually contacted my connection there, yet. I've had other matters to attend to."

"Yeah, well. I'm sure they've heard you're alive by now and are just waiting for the call."

"Surely," Sherlock smiled, all tooth. "I must be off. I had just stopped by to speak to Mrs.s Hudson for a moment. Good to see you again."

Sherlock stood, shook John's hand, and left.

He had gone there to tell Mrs. Hudson of his new information. He wanted to dedicate all of his time to finding the trigger that would bring John back to him. Their conversation had been interrupted when John arrived home. Even more so when Mrs. Hudson called him down. Sherlock walked home, mentally compiling a list of things that might trigger John's memory.

Gregory Lestrade went home alone Friday night, just like nearly every Friday night before it. He had left the Yard and gone for a drink at the Red Lion. About two hours later, he found himself unlocking the door to his flat and going inside.

The plan for the night was the same as the plan for the past four years' worth of nights, dinner and sleep. The plan changed during his weekends with the girls. Sarah and Maddie only saw Lestrade every other weekend. He tried to make it fun for them, but it became harder and harder the older they got.

Lestrade wandered into his room to change into something befitting a single, middle aged man. When he re-emerged, he realised that his plans no longer mattered.

"Hello, Inspector. I trust you are doing well?" Mycroft said. He was seated in Greg's armchair with his umbrella resting on the left arm.

Greg just nodded with quick acceptance and took a seat opposite. "Yeah, I'm fine. How are you doing? I heard Sherlock's alive. Bloody bastard." Greg smiled, he was happy Sherlock was still around despite the near daily anxiety he had caused Greg over the years.

"I'm doing well as always, Inspector."

"You can call me Greg, you know." Greg said. He wasn't sure if Mycroft actually called anyone by their first name except Sherlock. Even in the most informal situations, Greg had been _Lestrade_.

"Yes, of course." Mycroft replied idly.

"Did you just stop by for a visit, or was there something you needed from me?" Greg knew it wasn't a visit. Mycroft had no reason to visit him.

"I was wondering if you had received any word from my brother. Has he contacted you in any way or attempted to contact you?"

"Nope. I'm surprised, really. Thought the second he was back he'd be pounding down my door asking for all the unsolved cases he missed out on and any new ones we were working. My team was gearing up for the worst."

"How is your team, Gregory?"

"Alright I guess. Donovan took some time off after the fact. She came back though. Anderson, too. They both needed some time away from the Yard for a bit. Everyone else is doing alright. Got some new people up from training a few months back. Good lads."

Greg was silent for a second, "I never really got a chance to thank you for saving my job. I know there was an inquiry into my cases and that a lot of people wanted me fired for involving Sherlock. The whole thing sort of sat there and eventually dissipated. I know you had something to do with it. I don't like that you can do that sort of thing, but I owe you my badge."

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, Greg was more perceptive than he had given him credit for. "It was no matter, Gregory."

"Why did you do it?" Greg asked suddenly. He hadn't meant to ask, but it had been bothering him. "It's just that you never seemed to actually like me outside of keeping your brother out of trouble. You didn't have to save my arse."

"I owe you a substantial debt for your assistance to my brother. It was the least I could do." Mycroft gave him a confident smile.

It was true; Mycroft would owe Gregory Lestrade for the rest of his life. Just because Greg was kind enough to help a skinny kid to the hospital and wait with him until he was conscious again. Sherlock's drug habit was going to kill him had Greg not gotten him treatment that night. Mycroft would never forget that.

He shoved away less honourable thoughts. Greg was a good, honest man who helps his brother. Still, though, there was no point in Mycroft denying his attraction. The Inspector was a rare man, and Mycroft admired his loyalty and level head. He had no intention of approaching Gregory in such a way, though. Mycroft knew their lives were very different and doubted there was a place for him in the Inspector's. Normally, it was not a major setback. Mycroft had lived alone and aloof for most of his life. If required, he could continue to do it indefinitely.

Often, though, he thought, _It couldn't hurt to try_.

Mycroft stood to leave, "Thank you, Gregory. You will tell me if something comes up, won't you?"

Greg stood as well, "Of course. You'll be the first to know."

Mycroft nodded his thanks and showed himself out. Greg closed the door behind him, wondering why Mycroft came in person rather than just phoning him up.


	5. Chapter 5

**In the forests of the night, **

Sherlock awoke to a room very different from the one he remembered falling asleep in. He remembered a room with no furnishings save a small bed. It had white walls, a white ceiling, a white tile floor, and fluorescent lights.

In this room, he was sleeping in a four poster bed with deep red sheets and cover. There was a Persian rug on the floor and a broad mahogany dresser to the left. Nothing looked familiar. It didn't even look like a prison. Sherlock knew he was in the same room because the camera was in the same place.

A panel on the wall slid open and Moran strode through. Sherlock moved to get up, only to find his right angle latched to the bed. Moran waited while Sherlock inspected the lock. It was thick, twisted wire that looked impossible to break through without using special equipment. There was a flat, rounded, black box that was at the centre. All the chords met it. It was completely smooth, no numbers, no key hole, nothing.

After a moment, Moran broke in, "It's a finger print pad. It has to be turned on by entering a ten digit alphanumerical code into a keypad, and then pressing the corresponding finger print to the black bit in the middle. If the fingerprint doesn't match the key code, the lock doesn't open. If the key code is entered wrong, it doesn't open. I think you get the gist." Moran sounded incredibly smug. "It's a pretty little device; small, relatively light, and completely inescapable. I don't even think it is available to the SAS yet. I bet you're clever big brother could get his pristine little hands on one."

Sherlock was almost positive of it.

"If I give you some breakfast, would you eat it?" Moran asked.

"No."

"I swear it isn't drugged or anything. I'm just supposed to keep you alive for a while. I don't know if you remember it or not, but Jim left me extremely detailed instructions. I'm to drive you mad before I kill you and your friends. But I'm allowed to kill them first if you don't behave. I really don't want to jump to such rash things just yet, though. How about that breakfast?"

Sherlock nodded. He would check for signs of tampering before eating it. He would be able to tell if it was drugged.

Moran disappeared and returned with a paper plate bearing toast and a paper cup with tea in it. He set them both on the side table and returned to standing by the door.

"Go on then. I told you it wasn't poison. Mind you, toast and tea is nothing fancy, but it'll keep you alive." Moran withdrew a slick jack knife from his belt and opened it. He used the tip to pick dirt out from under his nails while Sherlock ate.

To Sherlock's surprise, the food was not poisoned or drugged or tempered with. It was plain tea and plain toast. Something in him said that Moran had not lied therefore he had some scraps of truth in him. That voice was quickly stamped out. It would be better, safer to assume that everything Moran says is a lie. No matter the contrary proof.

Sherlock finished and sat back.

"You want some more tea?" Moran asked, "I fancy myself a cuppa."

He returned with two paper cups and gave one to Sherlock. He went back to leaning against the doorframe and idly sipped the other.

Sherlock drank the new tea without question. He had only swallowed one mouthful before his brain began screaming, _wrongwrongwrongWRONG_.

"I never told you this one wasn't drugged, mate." Moran grinned.

Sherlock dropped the cup and remaining tea on the floor. It spread out in a puddle across the Persian rug. Moran didn't seem to care. He was still sipping his tea.

Sherlock looked down at the sheets again. They were no longer just red; the red was his blood soaking into them. He scrambled around to find the origin of the bleeding, but there was no wound. It was as though every pore of his body was just leaking blood. He tried to look at his hand, but his eyes refused to focus. Sherlock was getting dizzy and the room began to move. It was though it was teetering about on a centre axis. He lost all sense of direction.

Sherlock spun around and gave a groan when his leg was pulled sharply by the wire binding it to the bed. Moran laughed and it sounded like screams coming from between Sherlock's ears.

Sherlock continued to thrash and fight to get free. The drugs blocked his rational mind out, all logical though replaced by an animalistic need to get away.

"I'm shocked to say how fast you've succumbed, Sherlock. I was expecting you to last a bit longer. I supposed when it all comes down to it, you have the same biology as the rest of us. You too are just an animal feigning civility." Moran grinned and his lips seemed to spread farther than the perimeter of his face.

"What have you given me?" Sherlock forced out. He wasn't sure how coherent his words were, but he'd be damned if is logic gave up without a fight.

"A fun new drug," Moran said, "Some lovely people in Korea have some new toys and are using them to play around with. This one is still in beta testing, but I do have extremely high hopes for it. How are you finding the new substance? It is unnamed still, but that isn't really important."

Sherlock couldn't respond. None of his muscles wanted to cooperate. His brain was still fighting to separate reality from hallucination. It was doing a shite job of it.

"I'll just let you be for a while. I'll be back in a bit." Moran left and locked the door behind him.

Sherlock remained locked to the bed. He still struggled to maintain a hold on his mental faculties. _Had it been only a few minutes since Moran left? Or had hours already passed._ There was no way for Sherlock to tell. The room had no windows. His own internal clock, usually so accurate, had gone awry.

Eventually, Sherlock passed out due to exhaustion from struggling and exhaustion from trying to cling to John. Using the image to anchor his sanity.

John sat in his arm chair reading the papers. He had no work that was due in and it was his day off. There was nothing for him to do.

The door opened downstairs and Mrs. Hudson could be heard greeting someone. The low voice that answered her was unmistakably Sherlock's.

John perked up. Maybe the day wasn't going to be boring. John wanted to learn more about Sherlock's abilities in observation.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson asked, "Are you busy? Sherlock's round and has some time."

John stood and walked down into Mrs. Hudson's flat in lieu of a proper answer.

"Hello, mate," John greeted.

Sherlock smiled back. John was still so much the same. The three of them sat and chatted and Sherlock mostly stared at John. Right up until Sherlock's mobile rang.

"Hello?" Sherlock answered.

Lestrade skipped over the welcome back pleasantries, "Sherlock, it's Lestrade. Do you want a case?"

"Yes." Sherlock sat and listened to the details. The crime scene was all cleaned up, the idiots. But they needed to know where the suspect was hiding. Lestrade gave Sherlock three locations. The first two were just stupid, but the third has potential. Sherlock told Lestrade as much.

He hung up and stood. "I must be off. Lestrade has a case and the Yard is too busy chasing down dead end leads." Sherlock turned to leave before he looked again at John. A case could be his memory trigger. "John, you were a soldier."

"Yes," John said, looking puzzled. "What does that have to do with the case?"

"I could use someone familiar with a gun and acclimatized to violence with me. Could be dangerous. Would you like to come?"

John didn't hesitate, "Yes. Of course. Let me grab a jacket."

He ran upstairs and pulled on his thick, durable leather jacket. He went into his bedside drawer and withdrew his browning and tucked it against the small of his back. It was somehow steadying to have the familiar weight there again. John didn't want to think about what kind of person that made him.

Back downstairs, Sherlock was waiting in the hallway. He had pulled his greatcoat and scarf back around himself and was standing with all the primness of a public school boy. John looked him over. _Harrow_, he thought.

"Are you ready?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded.

Sherlock whirled around to give Mrs. Hudson a quick kiss on the cheek before darting away. John caught up on the curb and Sherlock's outstretched hand had already produced a black London cab. They shuffled in and Sherlock gave the cabbie instructions.

Settling back, John realised he had no idea where they were going or even why. He had just blindly trusted a man he barely knew. Another thing he didn't want to think about to determine the kind of person that made him.

"I suppose it would help if you knew the case details," Sherlock said.

John turned and gave him an expectant look.

"There was a woman named Grace Whippington. She was found dead in her flat about four days ago. Her boyfriend, Anthony, is suspected to have done it, but he alibied out claiming he was at an illegal poker game the night of the murder. Miss Whippington has no family here because she followed her boyfriend to London from America. He is from London, had gone to America for university, and returned home with Grace in tow." Sherlock stopped to make sure John was keeping up.

"Anthony supplied the names of other members of his usual table and all of them corroborated his story. The problem is that they move around and were unable to identify the building they were in. The Yard had three possibilities, but two were completely incorrect. We are going to see if the third is where they played that night."

"What if it is and the man's alibi is solid?" John asked.

"Then the only possible killer was the neighbour across the hall."

John grinned, "Alright. Give it up. How could you possibly know that?"

"The man across the hall is a drunk who beats his wife on especially bad days. Miss Whippington was getting sick of the abuse and was prepared to report it to the police. She has already once reported a disturbance to the landlord. The neighbour, an unseemly Mister Chordall, did not want the police knocking on his door again. Largely due to the methamphetamines and various other recreational substances he has hoarded about his flat."

"And how do you know this about Mister Chordall?"

"He was my dealer." Sherlock forgot for a moment that he was not speaking to his husband, but in fact to a man who had never properly spent time with him. John's face reminded him.

"You?" John looked shocked. "You're a junkie?"

"Ex-junkie." Sherlock schooled his face into remaining distant. He began reciting the periodic table of elements in alphabetical order. It helped distract him from remembering previous conversations he had with John about his history with drugs. John had cared so much and tried so hard and given him so much love.

"I don't believe you. You? On drugs? You're brilliant, why on earth would you do drugs?" John still looked incredulous.

"I get bored. I needed something to stop the boredom. Something to enhance my mind. Cocaine was my drug of choice. How do you think I met Lestrade?" Sherlock didn't give John a chance to react to that.

The cab pulled up outside the specified address; Sherlock paid. To John's surprise, the cabbie got out and just walked off.

"Why'd he just leave? We're still in his cab?" John looked out the window after the portly, retreating figure.

"I know him. He lets me use his cab for stakeouts because I don't own a car. It's fine. He is compensated well for his troubles and for not asking questions." Sherlock swung himself around so that his back was leaning against the driver's side seat and his long limbs were sprawled out on the seat. The edge of his arse was bracing his body over the gap. He stared intently out the rear window.

John did not even try to replicate the position. Instead he sat properly, facing the front of the cab, and, consequently, Sherlock.

The silence stretched and John began to get uncomfortable. He tried shifting about to find a better position, but it didn't work.

"I don't want to be rushing this or anything, but how long exactly do these usually take?" John asked.

"No idea. Could be hours," Sherlock replied, he pulled a bag of crisps from within the folds of his coat. "You can have these if you're hungry."

"No, thanks." John let the crisps sit on the seat between them. "Can you tell me more about yourself? If you want to, I mean." John wasn't sure what kind of story a brilliant ex-junkie had to tell, but he'd bet his next paycheque it wouldn't be a boring one.

"What do you want to know?" Sherlock still faced the window, but his eyes flicked over in John's direction.

"I don't know. Where'd you grow up?"

"I was born in London, but I grew up in various places."

"Various how?"

"I spent a considerable time in France. I started school at Eton, but was expelled. I finished at Harrow."

John laughed, "What'd you do to get expelled from Eton?"

"I stole one of the bodies they were using in the lab so that I could perform my own experiments on it. Apparently the administrators of Eton don't take kindly to pupils with psychopathic tendencies." Sherlock couldn't help but smile. He remembered the first time he told John that. He never let Sherlock delete it.

"Brilliant!" John said, laughing once again.

"Do you know you do that out-loud?" Sherlock asked. He hoped that repeating phrases would trigger John. It didn't.

"Oh, sorry. I'll stop."

"No, it's fine." Still nothing. No spark of memory, no small tell that John was returning to him. Sherlock would just have to try harder.

"What about you, doctor?" Sherlock asked.

"Can't you already tell where I went to school and grew up from the colour of my trousers or the mole behind my ear?" John joked.

"I can tell you're from Aldershot. Probably went to state school before graduating and going to Bart's to study medicine and train for the military." Sherlock smiled, he knew he was right. He knew much more than that, but he thought it best to not tell John his entire life story in one fell swoop.

"Spot on." John seemed genuinely pleased to have little details of his life deduced by a stranger.

"I do know one thing from the area behind your ear." Sherlock offered.

"What is that?"

"You woke up alone this morning."

"And how can you tell?"

"There's a bit of shaving foam behind you ear just here." Sherlock reached out without thinking and swiped at the spot.

John didn't move when Sherlock toughed him He didn't even flinch. Sherlock let himself be a little hopeful. _Was that the trigger? A simple touch?_

"Oh, yeah, thanks for that," John said. Most of his physical boundaries were left in his bunk in Afghanistan.

Sherlock sat back again. He didn't let his disappointment show. Of course John's trigger couldn't be something simple.

They lapsed back into silence.

John woke up in a freezing cab. He was spread across the back seat and was leaning on something that decidedly did not feel like a door. One long leg dangled down to the left, and to the right its match was braced up against the window. They wreathed John in some semblance of body heat. He pushed off the blanket and rubbed his face. Looking down, he saw it wasn't a blanket; it was a long, wool coat.

_Sherlock_, John's mind supplied.

"You're awake," Sherlock said. He was reclining back against the window. His deep blue shirt was rumpled where John had been lying on his chest. Sherlock looked as though John shouldn't freak out having woken up in his lap.

Sherlock had his elbow propped up against the back of the cab and was still looking out the window.

"Nothing happened. You've been asleep for about three hours." Sherlock supplied.

"Three hours? You just sat there and let me sleep on you for three hours?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes. Problem?"

"I-I've got a girlfriend." John couldn't think of anything else to say.

Sherlock's heart clenched. He wanted to shout at John and shake him until he remembered they were married and forgot the stupid café girl.

"I know." Sherlock turned to look back out the window. He withdrew his mobile and sent off a few texts. "We're not going to get anything from this tonight. Hungry?"

"Starved."

The next second the driver's door to the cab opened and their same cabbie sat himself down. He drove off without instruction. John assumed Sherlock had texted him where to go.

While they were moving back towards the centre of London, John began to collect himself. He straightened his jumper and attempted to pat down his hair. Sherlock pulled his coat back on and wound the scarf one again around his neck.

By the time the cab pulled up outside Angelo's, both men were once again presentable. Before leaving the cab, Sherlock shot off another text.

He paid the cabbie, and held the door for John as he clambered out. Sherlock didn't mention it. He knew John would be stiff from sitting in the same position for a long time and that his shoulder would be hurting him from the cold. While John was sleeping, Sherlock had tried to hold him to warm it, but he did not want John to wake. _Did this John have different sleeping patterns than John-with-Memory?_

They sat at a table by the window. A large man came over and handed them menus. He gave Sherlock a solemn look. To John, it looked forlorn and extrinsic to the broad, tanned face.

"Anything you want, free," Angelo said. He turned to John and pointed at Sherlock, "This is a very good man." Angelo then left them to their menus.

"He certainly likes you," John said, he smiled at Sherlock a genial expression that settled naturally on John's face.

"I helped him out of a bind once. I frequent his restaurant and complement it often," Sherlock wasn't bothering with the menu. Angelo knew what he liked.

John, however, was reading it intently, "I've never been here. What's good?"

Sherlock once again wanted to shake and scream. Instead he said, "I think you wold really enjoy the pasta primavera."

"Well you've been right thus far. I guess I ought to trust you with this one, too." John set his menu aside. Angelo collected their menus and John's order. He did indeed already have Sherlock's ready to be sent to the kitchen.

He didn't say it aloud, but Angelo knew they would work it out. The two had overcome far worse than some forgetfulness. One way or another, Sherlock would take care of it.

John sipped his water when a thought occurred to him. It wasn't just because he had woken up pressed against the man, but out of genuine curiosity. John had woken up next to another man before. There were certain kinds of brothers one had in the military. Not a sexual relationship, but a closeness that comes from depending on one another for survival. John just assumed Sherlock had no physical boundaries. He certainly disregarded all social convention in favour of his own logic.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, "Not really my area."

"A boyfriend then?"

"I did once."

"Just the once?"

"Just the once that really mattered."

There was more emotion in Sherlock's voice than John had ever heard it express before. Comparably, it still wasn't much, but he noticed the subtle shift in Sherlock's posture and the flicks of his eyes back and forth.

"Guess you're not with him anymore then?"

"No. Not exactly."

"What happened? Bloke go do something stupid?"

Sherlock gave a sideways gin, "Something like that. To be fair, I did something far stupider first."

"You doing something stupid? I can't imagine."

Sherlock could hear the sarcasm and smile in John's voice. He liked the familiar lit in his speech.

"If you don't mind my asking," John dared, "What did you do?"

"I faked my death." Sherlock was staring out the window. The lights from passing cars would occasionally shed light on his pale face.

John coughed, "Yeah. That'll do it." Then he grinned and Sherlock couldn't figure out what he was so happy about.

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded. He didn't let hope suck him in a second time in one night. He would let himself hope again if John remembered. _John, please_, Sherlock thought.

"You were a famous detective, right? Well you being alive and all was on the news. Surely your boyfriend must've seen it and knows you're still alive. You could stop by or give him a ring and try to patch things up."

"No. That wouldn't work. The situation would only be messy. I think it is best to give it time." Sherlock was glad he didn't let himself hope.

John looked downcast as Sherlock's words, "I'm sorry things aren't going well for you, mate. If you want, I'm having Mary over for dinner tomorrow with Mrs. Hudson. You can come too if you're not busy."

Sherlock grinned toothily at the opportunity to actually talk to this Mary. "I'd love to come, thank you."

The rest of their dinner was John talking about rugby and outlining the statistics for every player who ever wore the jersey for Manchester United. Sherlock nodded absently. He already knew all of this. John had already told him. It was good to see this John enthusiastic about something the same way Sherlock's John was. For a time, Sherlock let himself hope, just the tiniest bit.

Their dinners were finished and their plates were cleared away.

"Thanks for inviting me to dinner," John smiled.

"Certainly. I'll see you tomorrow for dinner." Sherlock didn't mention Mary. She wouldn't be in the picture after tomorrow night if Sherlock could help it.

Each man got a separate cab back to their respective flats.

John fed Pumpkin and carried the cat, complaining, all the way to bed.

Sherlock opened the door to an empty flat. He lay down for another restless night alone.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade was buried in paperwork. It was a hard job trying to explain to one's superiors why a man had suddenly raised from the dead and wants to consult on cases again.

His phone rang and Lestrade lifted the plastic receiver to his ear, "Lestrade speaking"

"Yes, Hello, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said. He was lounging in one of his offices about two blocks from Scotland Yard.

"Mycroft. What can I do for you?"

"I heard you gave my brother a new case," Mycroft said. He ran a finger along the leather of the chair's arm. "Thank you."

"Certainly. We needed his help anyways." Lestrade shifted through papers on his desk, counting the remaining things he needed to fill out and file and pretend never existed.

Mycroft didn't reply. Lestrade could still hear him moving about on the line.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, Gregory?" Mycroft was shutting the door to his office. His coat was prim and clean, umbrella hanging on his arm.

"Is there a reason you wanted to talk besides me giving Sherlock a case?"

"Are you currently overly occupied?" Mycroft crossed the street walked a block and was crossing the next.

"Nothing that needs doing exactly now. Why?"

Lestrade didn't get an answer immediately. Soon enough to still be ridiculously impressive, Mycroft walked onto Lestrade's floor. Lestrade could see him waltz in through the glass walls of his office. He got more than a few stares and looked well out of place.

He pushed open the door to Lestrade's office. Greg stood and extended his hand.

"Good to see you," Greg smiled.

Mycroft returned the smile, though not quite as warmly, "Don't sit back down, Gregory. Collect your things for the evening. You're needed elsewhere."

Lestrade looked confused, but did as he was told. Jacket slung carelessly over one arm, he quickly stuffed a pile of papers into his briefcase; unsure of what exactly it was he was collecting.

Mycroft waited a beat, then turned and strode out. There were more looks this time, but Lestrade kept his face neutral and his head down.

"Do you want to tell me where we're actually going?" he asked.

Mycroft didn't answer. They got outside and Lestrade ambled into the car with Mycroft following. It began to move and Lestrade did his best to settle down.

"Fancy ride," Lestrade noted.

"I enjoy small luxuries," Mycroft smiled, "Tell me, Gregory, what kinds of food do you like best?"

"Simple stuff really. Chips and a sandwich. Why?"

"I was hoping you'd enjoy your meal."

Lestrade was confused for a moment, "My meal- Are you taking me out to dinner?"

"Yes. Is that not acceptable?" For a moment Mycroft looked a bit nervous. The moment passed and Lestrade wasn't sure he had actually seen the expression properly; just a trick of the light, certainly.

They pulled up outside a restaurant Lestrade had never heard of before. They were seated by someone who Greg was sure was the owner.

"Is there any special occasion?" Greg asked.

"No. I thought I owed you for once again taking my brother on." Mycroft politely studied his menu. He didn't need to, but knew Gregory would be uncomfortable if he was simply stared at.

Once their food was ordered, Greg's mind began to wander. He couldn't be sure, but Mycroft seemed somewhat anxious. It was probably just some secret government dealings that were waiting for him.

"I know you're busy. If this is a problem or you need to go-," Greg began.

"No it's no problem. I'm yours for the evening," Mycroft said. He hoped his wording wasn't taken the wrong way. "That is, unless you have more important matters to attend to. In which case you are free to leave."

Greg shook his head and smiled again, "No. Not at all. You know me, nothing's ever on. It's good to have company outside of the office…that's alive."

Mycroft smiled and took a sip of his wine. Greg watched him swallow the red before he turned away, and pretended to be interested in other patrons.

"Do people ever call you something that's not Mycroft?" Greg asked, "Because I told you to call me Greg and you just switched to Gregory. It sounds like my mum when she's cross."

"So you think I don't use nicknames because my name does not have a shortened version readily supplied by society?"

"It sounds harsh if you put it that way. I suppose that was the general gist. Do you not use nicknames because there is no nickname for Mycroft?"

"No. I dislike nicknames because a name is a representation of one's self. I use titles and last names because first names repeat far more often than last names. As per your request, I switched to your first name, but I still prefer the full version. If you shorten a person's name, it is lie shortening their impact or importance in the circumstances that you are addressing them in."

Greg mulled this new information over, "You use full names because you think nicknames somehow lessen the importance of the person?"

"Precisely."

Greg laughed heartily. "Well that's stupid."

"Stupid?"

Greg laughed harder, he doubted anyone had ever called Mycroft stupid before, outside of Sherlock.

"I can see the reasoning behind it," Greg said through his laughter, "But it is a bit ridiculous. Using a nickname doesn't lessen a person's importance. It doesn't lessen how much that person might mean to you. If anything, it strengthens it. Sort of like you've reached a point in your relationship where that extra bit of name isn't needed. You're close enough to know that it someone's importance doesn't need to be justified. It is just there."

Mycroft had not seen it like that. He began to re-evaluate his understanding. Mostly, though, he wanted to think about Gregory and all the endless surprises the man seemed to contain.

Their food arrived and both began eating. Mycroft poured Greg another glass of wine and didn't bother hiding a small smile.

Greg grinned, "Trying to get me drunk?"

"Is it succeeding?"

"I can hold my own better than that." Greg raised his glass in a mock toast and downed the whole of it.

Mycroft's nose gave a small wrinkle of distaste and Greg was fascinated by it.

"What?" Greg asked, "Never seen a bloke drink? Don't worry your pretty head, I'm still in control of myself."

Mycroft nodded, "I have no doubts, Gregory."

Greg continued eating and eventually pushed his plate away. All traces of his chips and sandwich were gone. He didn't even want to imagine how much it had cost. Fish on a roll with some chips shouldn't be expensive, but god only knew with the kinds of places Mycroft was accustomed to.

On the other hand, Greg was fairly certain Mycroft's own meal of lobster and pasta came at a high cost.

The waiter came and set the cheque on the table. Immediately, Mycroft grabbed it and slid a sleek, gold card into the black folder without even looking at the cost. He handed it back to the waiter.

The kid nodded, thanked them, and went off to charge for the meal.

"I could've paid for my own meal," Greg said. He knew how useless the statement was, but he felt a bit insulted that Mycroft jumped in to take care of it.

"Nonsense. I took you away from your duties. The least I could do is pay."

"Mycroft," Greg said hesitantly, "Was this supposed to be like a date?"

_Yes._ Mycroft thought. "No," he said.

"Because you know if you wanted to ask me out on a date, you could've just said so, correct?" Greg grinned. _What a stupid genius_.

"I-Well," Mycroft was scrambling for words. He hated having to scramble for what to say. "I had initially intended to ask you on a date, yes. I reasoned that it would be more prudent to go to dinner not under the constraints of date etiquette."

"But you paid and we drank wine," Greg was feeling confident, "And don't even try to tell me you weren't flirting. Because I was." He winked and was pleased to see a tightly controlled flush rising up Mycroft's neck.

"I admit that an ulterior motive was present, but I had no intention on acting upon it. I assure you."

Greg sat back. "Would you act on it if I asked you to?" His voice was quiet, nearly a whisper.

"Yes, I think I might." Mycroft looked directly at Greg.

Greg stood, pulled his jacket on, and offered Mycroft his arm, "Would you do me the honour?"

Mycroft stood. He looked warily at Greg's offered arm. Greg got the message and let his arm fall slack.

He tried to be reassuring, "It's okay, you know. You don't have to jump into anything you don't want to. I'm just saying. If you had asked me as a date, I would have said yes."

Mycroft inclined his head slightly and just walked out. Greg was left standing alone in the middle of a crowded restaurant looking for all the world like a dumped lover. _They weren't even together. Why did he feel like a teenager scorned by his crush?_

_Like hell is he leaving me here_, Greg thought. He ran out the front door just as Mycroft was getting into his sleek black car. A second one was waiting behind it, identical. Greg knew that one was meant to take him wherever he wanted to go.

Greg watched Mycroft close the door and leave. Mycroft saw Greg standing outside the restaurant.

_Wrong_, Mycroft thought. He wasn't sure why he was leaving, but the sight of Gregory offering his arm immediately sent up Mycroft's red flags. He didn't turn in his seat to see if Gregory had gotten in the black car and turned for his home. Mycroft knew he would. It's what any sane man would do if abandoned at the end of a shite attempt as a first date.

Greg was not a sane man. He had bounded into the other back car and told the driver, "Take me wherever Mycroft is going. I don't care if it is halfway across the country. Take me to him."

The driver nodded and pulled out into traffic. He was trying to catch up, or at the least keep up with Mycroft's vehicle. A light stopped them and Mycroft's car sped forward.

Lestrade's eyes were glued to the window, trying to see if Mycroft even knew he was trying to follow.

After ten minutes of driving, Mycroft allowed himself a peek back at the road behind him. There was no sign of Gregory or his car. _Good,_ Mycroft thought, _he should be home with his telly. He had daughters to concern himself with and a regular job that he needed to keep the bills paid. A man like him has no time for me._

Greg was ready to draw his gun and shoot out every light. It was as though the traffic was intentionally trying to work against him. He hoped that his jittery movements weren't making the driver nervous. Who knows the kind of people this poor man has had to drive about for Mycroft. Lestrade tried to school himself back to a semblance of normality. When the light changed, they were off again. Lestrade couldn't help but notice that they were headed for the fabulously wealthy side of London.

Mycroft's car was stopped outside a large building and Lestrade could see him getting out. He was nearly beating the driver's seat to beg him to go faster.

Mycroft was already inside the building.

_Shite_, Greg thought, _I have no idea what his flat number is or what floor or anything_.

Greg got out of the car, quickly thanked the driver, and ran up the steps to open the door. Well, he was expecting a lobby. From the outside, the building looked as though it contained multiple flats. The door didn't budge. Apparently, the whole building was Mycroft's home. It was tall, slender, and white on the outside. There weren't neighbours to either side, just a garden and another street.

Greg tried the door again. This couldn't possibly all be a private residence. No such luck. He rapped on the door and called out, "Mycroft? Are you in there?"

Mycroft sat in his study. Anthea was giving him a look. He didn't want to deal with this.

"Anthea," Mycroft waved her over, "Please let Inspector Lestrade into the library to wait."

Anthea nodded and went off.

_I will not run from this_, Mycroft thought.

He walked into the library and Gregory was there waiting for him.

"Why did you leave me there?" Greg demanded.

"I did not think the arrangement was going to work out. I apologise for not wishing you a good evening. Forgive me."

"Didn't think it was going to work out? So you take me out to dinner. Tell me it was supposed to be a date. I tell you that a date would be fine and that I'd enjoy that. You leave and I have to chase you halfway across London just so you and tell me that it won't work out?" Greg wasn't sure whether he was angry or hurt.

"Yes. Good evening, Detective Inspector. I assume you know the way out," Mycroft turned and began walking out.

Greg grabbed his arm and pulled him back, "Like hell are you leaving me standing alone again."

He pulled Mycroft close and they were inside one another's comfort zone. Mycroft hesitated a second, unsure of what was coming next. Greg waited the same second to give Mycroft a chance to pull away. Then they were kissing and Mycroft's lips were soft and tasted of wine and cinnamon.

Greg wrapped his arms around the small of Mycroft's back. He could feel heat from the taller man's body even through layers of shirt and waistcoat and jacket. After a moment, Mycroft's hands found Greg's hair and the back of his neck. Mycroft kissed like he was afraid Greg was going to pull away and run.

After another minute, they broke apart; resting their foreheads together and just breathing.

"I'm not going anywhere, you know," Greg supplied.

"Good. I'd hate to have to hunt you down. Disrupts the traffic and such." Mycroft was smiling. It was gorgeous.

"I don't want to make you do something you don't want. I don't know," Greg cut off. He restarted, "Have you ever had a relationship with a bloke before?"

"I wouldn't call it a relationship, but I have been with men." Mycroft couldn't help but notice that they were just standing in the middle of his library. _Would it not be more appropriate to go…elsewhere?_ He wasn't willing to propose it and ruin the moment. He wasn't even sure where they were to go. Was it more appropriate to move to the sitting room? Is inviting Gregory to my bedroom too forwards?

"Men plural?" Greg raised an eyebrow, "You dog." He grinned and Mycroft hesitantly returned it. Greg doubted that Mycroft had much of a chance to joke around with people. Or smile sincerely at all, really.

"Do you want to move elsewhere? Maybe more comfortable?" Mycroft offered.

"Are you inviting me to your room?"

"If you don't have any objections, that would be one possible candidate for relocation."

"Look at me. I thought I was going to sit at home with a microwaveable dinner and _Black Books_ reruns." Greg laced his fingers with Mycroft's. "Lead the way."

He was beginning to realise that Mycroft was most comfortable if he was in control of a situation or at least knew how to quickly gain control if need be. When that control was taken away, especially in his personal life, Mycroft began to distance himself from the situation. Greg was going to do all he could to make sure Mycroft was comfortable. He could tell that not many people gave mind to Mycroft's sense of happiness because they wanted to; not out of fear for the man.

Mycroft gave Greg's hand a squeeze and led him upstairs. The house seemed deserted. Greg knew to not believe everything he saw, though.

Mycroft's room had a large four poster bed made of dark wood. There were hardwood floors that a rectangular pale, blue carpet covered. The whole room was done in that pale blue, grey, and white. The furnishings all made of the same dark wood, and a television was mounted to the wall facing the bed. A bookcase stood next to a rounded window overlooking the garden below. It had a dark brown leather armchair that marched the one Greg saw in the library. The whole room was larger than Greg's sitting room.

"I may have something more comfortable for you to change into?" Mycroft offered, "If not, I can send someone out to get you a change of clothing." _The last time I offered someone else my clothing was when I found Sherlock living under a bridge. And only then because it was that or let him freeze. _

"I'll be alright. No need to rouse the troops just to pick me up a pair of sweats." Greg undid his tie and the just held it in his hand. Everything in the room looked so pristine. Where was he supposed to put his tie?

Mycroft reached out. "I'll take it. Are you sure about the clothing? I know I have spare pyjamas."

"Are you inviting me to spend the night?" Greg grinned and kissed Mycroft again. "I'm sure whatever you have is perfect, far beyond perfect. Fit for Her Majesty herself should she ever pop by for tea and insist you share your night clothes!"

Mycroft pulled back and went into the closet. Greg had never seen quite so many suits. Even in the shops they seemed to have a smaller selection than the depths of Mycroft's closet.

"Preparing for the end of the world, I see." Greg didn't want to follow Mycroft in, but he couldn't help but look.

"I enjoy well-tailored, high quality clothing."

"I can see that. Well, I already knew that to be honest. Everything I've ever see you in looks like it would cost me a paycheque and a half."

"Probably closer to two paycheques, Gregory."

"And how would you know how much I get paid."

There was silence. Greg realised, "Right. Power, government, I'm a cop. Got it." After a thought he continued, "I don't care that you looked into me, by the way. It's flattering."

Mycroft re-emerged. He had changed out of his suit and put on pyjamas that looked nearly identical to his suit. They were the same light grey as the suit and composed of a soft, loose fitting button up shirt and flannel trousers.

He handed Greg a pair of pyjamas that were the exact same thing in blue.

"Not much variety to pyjamas, huh?"

Mycroft looked at him oddly before smiling and nodded at the joke. "The bathroom is just through that door," he said, pointing at a white door a few feet from the closet.

Greg walked in. he wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the bathroom exceeded that. The tile was tan and textured as to feel like soft rock. There was a large shower with glass doors and two sinks set into white marble. The toilet had its own separate area with a door dividing it from the main bathroom area. A tub with gold feet was opposite the shower. There was a table next to it made of the same wood in the bedroom. Greg rested the pyjamas on there as he was changing. They were a bit long on him and didn't quite fit in the shoulders, but they weren't uncomfortable. Greg toyed with the idea of having clothing of his here. He pushed it aside, not wanting to jump to conclusions after just one night.

Folding up his trousers and shirt from work, he looked about; once again faced with the problem of where to put his things.

There was a hanger on a hook that bore his tie. He unfolded his shirt to hang it on that and his trousers on the one behind it. Greg went to the sink and stared at it for a moment. The nozzles were gold and had white marble pieces rounded to fit the centre. Rather than reading Hot and Cold, these said Chaud and Froid. Greg was grateful for his rudimentary French lessons in secondary school.

He washed his face and examined himself in the mirror. He wasn't one for vanities, but this instance could be forgiven. Greg tried to look at himself objectively. He tried to see what it was that Mycroft was attracted to. Instead, all the same flaws he had lived with his whole life started back at him. Deeming it a lost cause, Greg emerged from the bathroom.

Mycroft was sitting atop the bed. He had his hands steepled under his chin in a posture that Greg recognised instantly as Holmesian.

"You look a bit like Sherlock sitting there like that," Greg pointed out. He stood beside the bed, not sure if he was supposed to get in it or sit atop it alongside Mycroft.

"No, he looks like me. I came first." Mycroft corrected.

"It's just that I see him doing that with his hands and no expression more often."

"He began copying me when we were younger. You are just more accustomed to seeing him in such a position because you have spent more time with Sherlock outside of work that you have spent with me."

"I know why I think it looks like Sherlock rather than the other way around. John would say the same thing. If Sherlock sent black cars to fetch people at random times, I would say he was behaving like you. It's just what I'm accustomed to that sets the precedent."

Mycroft nodded in understanding, "Are you going to sit here with me or just stand by the side of the bed?"

Greg climbed atop the bed and settled himself next to Mycroft.

"If I told you I don't want a shag tonight, would you leave?" Mycroft asked. He didn't look afraid. He could feel it tugging in the corner of his mind, though.

"No. I'd stay right here. This bed is far more comfortable than my own anyways." Greg tried to be reassuring. He leaned over and kissed Mycroft again.

The kiss was slow and he tried to pour confidence into Mycroft through it. Greg leaned back and pulled Mycroft on top of him. He wanted Mycroft to be able to pull away or stop if he wanted.

Greg turned his head and began kissing a trail down the side of Mycroft's pale neck. "You are gorgeous," he said in between each touch.

They lay atop the bed simply kissing and both were fine with that. Neither wanted to push whatever this was just yet. Mycroft pulled back and pushed the comforter and sheet down so he could fit under. Greg did the same and drew the sheet back up. He guided the now mussed up ginger head to his chest and just held him there. One hand dipped lower to cradle Mycroft's hip.

"I'm glad you followed me," Mycroft said. It was quiet and he didn't raise his head to see if Greg was listening.

"I wasn't going to let you get away from me that easily."

They burrowed deeper into the bed and one another and soon fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock stormed into 221 in a flurry that the door hinges were quite familiar with. Mrs. Hudson poked her head poked her head out of 221A and gave Sherlock a little wave.

"Hello, dear," she smiled.

"Hi," Sherlock replied brusquely and glanced briefly up the stairs to John's door. He shook his head and walked into Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Do you mind if I sleep here for a night?" he asked.

"Of course, dear. Just remember I'm not going to clean up after you. What happened to that little flat you were living in?"

"The landlord was an idiot and the people above me spent every moment they were at home together engaging in sexual intercourse. Loudly."

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. "Goodness, I wonder what that sounds like." She gave Sherlock a pointed look and he had the decency to look sheepish.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued, "I told the landlord that the tenants above me were vile and perhaps should be less concerned about shagging and more concerned about the mistress that goes round that flat every Wednesday night when the wife is working an extra shift."

"Why did that get you kicked out?"

"The landlord was the one who lived above me."

Mrs. Hudson nodded sagely as though she had already known the answer.

"You don't worry," she said with a pat on his arm, "You can stay here the night. I hope the sofa is alright. I've only got one bed."

"The sofa is perfect."

The front door opened and John walked in with an armful of groceries. His head came around the door and he smiled.

"Hullo Mrs. Hudson. I picked you up some more biscuits considering I ate a good number of them the last time I was here for tea."

"You really shouldn't have," Mrs. Hudson said. Still, she reached out and took the box from John.

"Good to see you again, Sherlock" John smiled, "I'll be right back down. I've got to put the milk and stuff away."

They could hear the thump of John running up the steps and the thuds of his returning. He had shed his coat and brought a bottle of lager with him.

Sherlock watched his movements. _Just come off a long shift. Lots of paperwork. Had a patient that was rushed in to the ER and needed surgery. Car accident. Young victim. John only drank right after work if it was a young victim._

"Long day," Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. Had an ambulance rush a little girl into the ER straight from a car accident. Her dad only needed a few stitches, but I had to stop her internal bleeding." John looked far away. Sherlock knew he always took it harder if the patient was young, generally under fourteen years of age. He wanted to wrap John up in his arms and comfort him as best as he could, but that would not be welcomed.

"That just horrible, John," Mrs. Hudson said, "It's a good thing that little girl was taken to you. You're the best doctor they have around there. I'm sure you did an excellent job."

"Luckily the surgery went well and she's going to make a full recovery." John sounded weary. He took pride in his work, but was not prideful. The important thing was that the girl was going to live, not that he had saved her.

John turned to Sherlock. "What brings you around here?"

"The sofa."

"The sofa?"

"I was evicted for insulting the landlord's personal life."

John snorted in laughter, "Really?"

"The tenants above me were often having loud intercourse and the man was cheating on his wife. I informed the landlord thusly and learned that it was he and his wife who lived above me. I was promptly evicted."

"So you're just sleeping on the sofa here until you find a place to stay?"

"Yes."

John smiled, "I've got a spare room if you want to move in with me? I mean, you don't have to or anything, but if you need a place to stay, I've got space for you."

"I keep unusual hours and sometime I won't talk for days on end. I also play the violin. Would that bother you?"

"Not really. I have odd hours as well and often take unwanted shifts because I'm hardly ever busy. And I have a cat."

"I can pay half the rent. I don't care for cats."

"Good. I wasn't inviting you to move in for free. I don't care if you like cats or not, the cat stays."

John extended his hand and Sherlock took it. He planned to pass the cat onto Molly. It was just a matter of time.

"That's settled then," John said, "Mrs. Hudson, that's alright that Sherlock moves in, right?"

She looked overjoyed, "Of course! Oh this is so exciting. I have to go ring next door."

"Give me a moment to summon my things," Sherlock said withdrawing his phone.

_I'm moving back into 221B. SH_

_I heard. MH_

_Get your bugs out of Mrs. Hudson's flat. SH_

_I'll send your belongings over tomorrow morning. Congratulations. MH_

"My things are coming tomorrow morning." Sherlock looked up, "Thank-you."

John replied, "No problem. I've had that empty room for as long as I can remember. It'll be good to fill it with something."

Sherlock was already thinking of little ways he could attempt to trigger John's memories back. The opportunities to do so became far greater with the increased time they would be in one another's company.

The next morning, Sherlock showed up at 221 with a moving truck in tow. John was waiting up in the flat and smiled as Sherlock bounded up the stairs. He offered Sherlock a mug of tea that was most welcome.

Sherlock sipped it and was glad John remembered how he liked his tea.

They both sat in the sitting room as Mycroft's drones carried Sherlock things into John's extra room. Sherlock had given the m explicit instruction to put everything of his back in the flat exactly as it was before. As a result, there were also people setting Sherlock's things randomly around the room. Pumpkin was having a fine time ducking into boxes and generally getting in the way.

John pointed at the skull, "Friend of yours?"

"I say friend. His name is Billy. I talk to him when I'm bored."

"You talk to a skull?"

"Yes."

"Does it ever talk back?"

"Don't be absurd."

It took a little over an hour, but Mycroft's team was soon clearing out. Sherlock looked around the living room, taking in everything that had been placed there.

His black leather armchair now faced John's cloth one. The yellow smiley face on the wall had been washed off, but that was easily remedied. Sherlock's mugs were back in the cupboards and his various tools scattered through the kitchen. The only thing that wasn't back where it belonged was Sherlock's violin. That was sitting across his lap. There was no way Sherlock was letting one of the denizens touch his violin.

John looked around after the last person shut the front door. "You have a lot of stuff."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"

"No," John replied, "Just an observation."

"How are you paying all of those people to just move your things in for you?"

"I didn't. My brother did."

"Your brother? I didn't know you had a brother."

"Yes. Elder. Mycroft. He's fat."

John laughed. "You have an elder brother named Mycroft and he's fat?"

"Yes. I just said that. Don't make me repeat things."

"Sorry, I just think it's funny. My immediate response to people asking after my sister isn't along the same lines."

"You also dislike your sister, though."

"I-How can you tell?"

"Phone."

"Right."

They sat quietly before John cleared his throat, "You're right. I don't like Harry. We've never really gotten on. She drinks too much and thinks I have a God Complex."

"You're a doctor. Of course you have a God Complex."

John looked offended. "I bloody well do not."

"John," Sherlock said in a tone that made John feel as though a teacher was correcting his grammar, "You don't think you have a God Complex because you are not a man of pride. But it isn't all about pride. It's about wanting to be the one to fix things. Taking charge and feeling as though all the responsibilities and problems of other people are somehow yours to fix. Just because you aren't a prat about it doesn't mean that you don't feel it."

John looked rather startled. "I suppose you're right."

He sat back to think about what Sherlock had just said. In hindsight, it was right. All of it. John knew he took on problems that weren't necessarily his to bother with, but he thought that was just being helpful.

"Don't take it as an insult, John," Sherlock offered. "It wasn't meant to be. I was merely stating facts."

"No, it's no problem. You're just making me think a bit differently, that's all."

Sherlock stood to go look into his room, leaving John alone to his re-evaluation of his actions.

Sherlock stepped into the room and smiled. The bed was exactly as he had it. All his files were neatly stacked away. The framed periodic table of elements was hung on the wall and had been dusted within an inch of its life. He pulled the closet door open and all of his suits stared back at him. Going through the bureau, Sherlock was pleased to see that even his sock index was in order. No matter how much Sherlock disliked Mycroft, his people did excellent work.

That night, John made Sherlock a welcome dinner. Sensibly, Pumpkin was nowhere to be seen.

"I won't cook for you every night, mind. This is just a special occasion," John said over their plates of curry chicken

Sherlock nodded. _I've heard that before_, he thought, _you'll make me dinner far more often than you think. _

They ate and Sherlock complimented John's cooking. He already knew it was one of five proper meals that John knew how to make, but didn't say so. John called them his "Date Meals." He believed a man needed to know at least five meals to make a girl if she ever went to his place for dinner and was expecting something homemade.

They each armed themselves with mugs of tea and sat before the telly.

"Do you have any favourite shows?"

"No. I dislike telly."

"Right." John had never heard of anyone disliking telly.

"I dislike _QI t_he least."

"_QI_? I can work with that." John flipped channels until they found one that _QI _was on. It didn't take long. Seemed like there was always one channel playing _QI_ somewhere in Britain.

John spent the rest of the night gaping at Sherlock as he answered every question right. Occasionally, there would be one that was boring, and Sherlock shouted as much at the telly. Most of the questions, though, he knew the answer to and carried on without comment.

"How do you know all of this?" John asked.

"Mind palace."

"What's that?"

Sherlock turned and faced John. He once again gave the blond a sense of being scolded at school.

"A mind palace is a memory device. I picture an area and associate each area with a certain memory or area of study. Then, if I want to perfectly recall a certain subject, I need only to walk through my mind palace and enter that room. The information is there and this system allows me perfect recall. I do have to delete rooms occasionally, but they are generally ones that are unimportant."

"And you have a whole palace for this?"

"Yes."

"When you say 'delete rooms,' what exactly do you mean?"

"My mind is like a hard drive. It only holds so much. I need to fill it with important things or it will rot. I don't have time for learning little things because I'm too busy with working and knowing things that are relevant to my work."

"Your work. Right. How'd that case go by the way?"

"Oh, fine. It was the neighbour."

"You said that when we were in the cab."

"I know."

The end credits of _QI _began rolling and John stood to stretch. Sherlock's attention was drawn to the sliver of bare skin exposed between the edge of John's trousers and jumper when he stretched. There was the barest hint of hip-bone that showed and Sherlock wanted to mark it in the same way he used to.

"I'm going to go to sleep. I've got a shift from two in the morning until noon tomorrow," John said. He wasn't sure if he should shake Sherlock's hand. In the end, he just said good night and sleep well. John trudged up to his room. Tomorrow was going to be a long one.

Sherlock watched John go and knew that sleep would not breach his mind palace that night. There was so much to think about. John had let him move back in so easily. He did not respond to the identical environment, nor did he respond to more similar phrases. Sherlock still hadn't given up on that theory, yet.

He began to add more things to the list of potential memory triggers:

Working on a case.

Participating in an event under similar circumstances and in a similar environment.

Playing violin pieces that he used to frequent.

Replicating various failed experiments to produce identical odours.

Sherlock knew that if he failed in unlocking John's memory, he would have to win him back the regular way. And he wasn't even clear on how he had managed it the first time around. Then again, John didn't have a steady girlfriend at that time. Now he had to endure comments about Mary and her insufferable existence. It simply would not do.

Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa when John made his way downstairs at one in the morning for breakfast. He had to be at surgery by two, which meant an even earlier start to his day.

John stood in the kitchen wearing boxers and a white t-shirt. Sherlock was intimately familiar with those boxers. John fed Pumpkin and went about his morning routine.

"Good morning," Sherlock said, startling John into nearly spilling his coffee.

"Jesus, Sherlock. You scared the shite out of me. Why are you awake?" John rubbed his eyes and went to join Sherlock in the sitting room. He reclaimed his arm chair and slumped against it.

"I am not tired. I told you I keep odd hours."

"Yeah, but you need to sleep sometime. What is your brain supposed to do, keep going a mile a minute on no fuel?"

"Your body technically doesn't need sleep. Sleep is purely a psychological need. Your brain and thoughts need sleep. You liver, for example, does not require it."

"Right. So you'll just go without sleep until what? You go mad?

"No. I'll go without sleep until my baser instincts force me to sleep. But that is only if need be. I generally sleep every two days. If I am on a case, I can take daily three hour breaks until the case is solved. Then I will sleep for approximately seventeen hours."

"Seventeen hours in one go?"

"Yes."

"It is much too early for this conversation about sleep. I need to get ready for work." John stood and stretched again. Sherlock was drawn to the sliver of skin. The same desire rushed him, but he was more successful in keeping it down.

John went upstairs and Sherlock heard the shower turn on. It was another thing Sherlock was intimately familiar with; John's shower.

Eventually, John left for work. Sherlock was still sitting in the same position.

At 11:25 am that afternoon, there was a knock on the door. Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa. He glanced at the clock and noted that it could not be John.

The first person on his list of possibilities was also the last person he wanted to deal with. The knocking continued. Sherlock left it alone. He shut his eyes and blocked out the sound.

The door was opened and Mrs. Hudson said not-so-cheerily, "Hello, Mary."

A much brighter, "Good afternoon," was the response. "Is John home?"

"No. I'm afraid he's at work for a while. I'll tell him you stopped by."

"Oh no, it's fine. If he's still at work at this time, then he's probably getting off at noon. Do you mind if I wait in his flat?" Mary didn't want to intrude, but she was hoping to surprise John with lunch plans.

"Of course," Mrs. Hudson said. She wanted to say, _No, Sherlock's back and you can go home now_. But she couldn't bring herself to say it. _Mary was such a sweet girl. Oh what a mess!_

"Thanks!" Mary jumped up the stairs and pushed open the door. She stopped and her purse thumped hard against the ground. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I live here," Sherlock said with a smile.

"No you don't! John lives here and he has a spare room and he doesn't even remember you so why the hell are you here?"

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson thought that she had never imagined sweet, little Mary to be so hostile.

"I needed somewhere to stay. John asked me to be his flatmate. I accepted. Honestly, I can tell you are dull, but I did hope John wouldn't be interested in someone so stupid." Sherlock's harshness struck Mary like a physical blow.

"How dare you!" she yelled. "He loved you and you died and now you have the gall to come back here and try and have him back? No! I won't let that happen! Not unless John sends me away. I care about him. Do you know that feeling? To care about someone?"

"Of course I do!" Sherlock roared at her. "I love him. Do you think I cannot feel? I know more about him than you will ever begin to know. You think you have some sort of claim on him? You're wrong. He married me. You are just a minor setback because he thought it would be a good idea to get his memory erased!"

"You didn't see him! Do you know what happened to him? He died, too, Sherlock. You died and left him alone and he died with you. The whole fucking country knew. Half the fucking world knew just from his blog that you destroyed him. He had to deal with the press attacking him asking him the most horrid questions about his _dead husband_!" Mary was equally as flustered and increasing in volume with every sentence. "You don't deserve him after the shite you dragged him through. You don't deserve anyone."

Mary turned and left, and the door slammed hard behind her.

Sherlock was not expecting that sort of reaction. All of his data on Mary Morstan said she was meek and innocent. He had even heard the conversation between them when Mary assumed John was going to break up with her.

_What had changed? She first heard Sherlock was alive, called John, and was willing to surrender their relationship right there. She clearly had not known about John's memory blockage or she would not have even bothered making the call._ The answer came to Sherlock and he had an instantaneous desire to start an international crisis just because it would inconvenience the wretched, pompous, prat.

Sherlock pulled his coat from the rack. He was still fuming and was going to go after the one person he knew who could fuck this up so badly for him.

Sherlock pounded on the door to the Diogenes Club and shouted, "Mycroft let me in or I swear I will shoot this door off!"

Immediately two attendants in tuxedos appeared at the door and man handled Sherlock inside. One was holding Sherlock's mouth shut, and the other keeping his arms locked behind his back. They relinquished Sherlock once the trio reached Mycroft's personal study.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Mycroft said with a dismissive wave. "Why was this necessary, brother?"

"You told Mary."

"Exactly what did I tell Mary?"

"You told Mary Morstan about Lacuna and John not remembering." Sherlock stabbed an accusatory finger into Mycroft's chest. "Because of you she thinks she has a claim on John. Mary thinks she can just show up and have him despite the fact that he was mine first and she isn't even worthy of looking at him."

"Sherlock, see reason. Mary met John just as he was before you met him. She does care about him, and at the dawn of their relationship, you were presumed dead. She is not at fault here. I understand that you think Miss Morstan should terminate her relationship with John because you are alive. But you must also understand that much of the situation is paralleled for her."

"I don't care! John is mine and I will have him back."

"That is fine, Sherlock. You just have to take into account the fact that Miss Morstan, from her point of view, is in a similar situation and is going to respond as much as you will. John tends to bring that out in people."

"Stay away from us," Sherlock slammed the door on his way out. He pushed the thought of Mary slamming the door of 221 out of his mind. There were no parallels and Mycroft was just being an arse again.

Sherlock stuffed his hands in the pockets of is greatcoat and walked with purpose. The sort of purpose that people parted for. Sherlock was going to have John back.


	8. Chapter 8

At night, if John was particularly lucky, he dreamt of Sherlock. He would relive the best days they spent together and wake up with a few seconds to pretend it was still like that for them. He always loved the good days, even if they were really boring ones when nothing was done except tea drinking and telly watching. There were even days they had that were extraordinary. John knew he'd never get to tell Sherlock, but memories of their extraordinary days kept him alive.

**I Gave You All**

John stood before the full length mirror that hung inside Sherlock's half of their closet. _Can I still call it Sherlock's half of the closet?_ John thought. He supposed it would always be that way. Sherlock's clothes still hung undisturbed alongside his. Some were even mixed up in there because Sherlock couldn't be bothered to hang it up properly that day.

John carefully folded his tie and made sure his jacket was in order. This was the first Sunday after Sherlock's death. John didn't know it yet, but he was about to set up a precedent that would impact his Sundays for over the next year.

He hailed a cab and waited for it to pull up to the wrought iron gates. John pushed in and immediately knew where Sherlock rested. It was still a fresh wound. Sherlock would be a fresh wound for a long time, but John didn't think it would ever be as bad as the first time. He was wrong. He just didn't know it yet.

The ground was damp, or John would've sat and leaned his head against the headstone like he used to rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder. A small smile reached him when he realised that the headstone would probably be about as comfortable as Sherlock's bony frame.

John stood and stared at the immaculate gold letters until his eyes swam. He didn't even try to wipe his tears away. There was no point when they would just keep coming.

He wasn't sure how long he just stood there, but John was beginning to get stiff. He needed to sit. His leg was quickly reaching its limit.

John remembered the time he and Sherlock had to sit in a grave for three hours waiting for a suspect to reveal himself as a grave robber. When John's leg bothered him then, Sherlock had encouraged him to sit on one of the headstones.

There was no way John was going to sit on Sherlock's, though. A few feet away was one that was broad and flat and looked sturdy. It was unmarked and that made John feel a little less guilty about sitting down.

_Thanks, mate_, John thought. He made a mental note to bring a blanket or collapsible chair next time.

John's leg immediately felt better. He didn't talk, not a single word. He just closed his eyes and tried to think of all the good things he and Sherlock had done together. It hurt. Dear god did it hurt to think of Sherlock, but John knew that was what he needed. A shred of happiness.

The first think John's mind touched was the day he and Sherlock had gotten engaged. It stood out so vibrantly in John's memory.

The morning of that day, Sherlock had woken up before John, rolled over, and pulled John close. As John slowly emerged from sleep, Sherlock had begun kissing from his neck down, down, down to his navel and back up again. It was the best way to be woken up in the morning.

John jolted fully awake when Sherlock's mouth closed around John's morning erection.

"Christ! Good morning to you, too," John said. His hands went to Sherlock's curls and he tipped his head back.

Sherlock teased around his crown before his mouth covered just the head. Closing his hand around the shaft, Sherlock sucked hard and John produced a deep growling. Sherlock mimicked the sound around John's cock and his hair was pulled a little harder.

"Oh god that's good," John said, rather loudly.

Sherlock let his hand fall away and licked from base to tip. He repeated the motion a few more times before taking John fully in his mouth again. Sherlock moved farther down past the head until it pressed against the back of his throat. He gave another strong suck before coming back up for air, gliding his tongue along the underside of John's cock as he did so. Sherlock raised his left hand to cup John's balls. He turned his head and gently paid both of them equal attention.

When Sherlock once again began taking John's cock as far as he could manage, John's hips began short stuttered thrusts. Based on precedent, Sherlock knew that John was close to coming. The closer John got, the deeper his thrusts into Sherlock's mouth went, the tighter John held onto Sherlock's hair, the louder and less coherent John's moans and swears became.

Eventually it was just a litany of, "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock."

Then with a warning pull, John came down Sherlock's throat and carried on ranting Sherlock's name.

Sherlock swallowed and then left John to his blissful recovery so he could clean himself up. He returned with a damp towel to do the same for John. Sherlock leaned down to kiss him.

"Marry me," Sherlock breathed against John's lips.

"Anything," John had sworn, "Anything you want it's yours. After that kind of wake up? Fuck, I'd buy you an island."

Sherlock grinned. John had said yes.

To hours later they were both seated, washed, armed with tea, and relaxing on the sofa. John was reviewing a medical journal that had just been released and Sherlock had his head in John's lap attempting to listen to the sounds John's stomach made when deprived of dinner and breakfast consecutively.

"I'm happy we're getting married," Sherlock said. He thought it would be prudent to inform John of his feelings towards their eventual marriage. He also did not want a repeat of the lecture John had given him about actually telling John what he was feeling about certain events. That conversation had been spurred on by Sherlock's lack of communication and John's jealousy being incredibly easy to instigate.

John set his papers aside and looked down at Sherlock, "That wasn't just an experiment, right Sherlock? You genuinely asked me to marry you, and you mean to eventually sign legal documents that permanently bind us together?" During that same communication conversation, John learned that detailed descriptions for various things were needed so that Sherlock knew exactly what John's expectations were.

Sherlock rolled over so that he was no longer pressing his ear against John's stomach, but instead looking up at him from under over-grown curls. "I asked you to marry me with the understanding that, should you say yes, we would go and jointly sign a legal document before witnesses that would bind you to me as my husband and me to you in a likewise manner. In light of your positive response, I propose we leave right now to book a day with a judge who doesn't dislike me so that we may be married as soon as possible."

John nodded and grinned in affirmation, "Good. That's good."

He leaned down and kissed Sherlock, all sloppy smiles. They stayed sitting on the sofa like that until John's back protested and forced him into lying atop Sherlock. The new position gave John the impression that their sofa was shrinking. He wasn't terribly concerned with it just then. Far more important matters needed attending to.

Still sitting on the blank grave, John was pulled out of his memory by a sharp whistle. An older man wearing simple clothing was making his way towards where John sat. Hastily, he stood up and bushed himself off hoping to avoid being kicked out for using a grave marker in such an inappropriate manner.

The older man reached John and extended his hand. "Hiya," he said and shook John's hand, "I was wonderin' in ye were doin' alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," John said. It was a lie, but John thought it would get the man to leave.

"I'm the overseer of this portion of the land, ye see. And ye been standing there an awful long time. Now I don't mean to rush ye in payin' yer respects. It's just that I like to keep a look out for visitors who seem to havin' a real hard time of it."

John nodded in thanks and understanding. _Please go away_, he thought.

"Now ye sure ye are doin' alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," John said again. He knew he sounded like he was on auto pilot. In a way, he was. It was his response to every bad situation life had given him. It had gotten him thus far, but John wasn't sure just being fine was going to cut it anymore.

The overseer's head inclined in a small bow to the headstone and he walked away.

John was thankful to once again be left alone. He didn't continue remembering Sherlock for the rest of the time he sat at the grave. John soaked up the silence and wished for once that Sherlock would be annoying and impossible and shooting at walls. Anything. John would swear over anything Sherlock wanted. _Please come back to me_, John thought.

He turned and walked away, already planning to return the next Sunday with a blanket.

It was 3am at 221B and John was asleep. Sherlock sat the prime opportunity to test this theory about audio triggers on John's memory.

Sherlock pick up his violin and slowly rosined the bow. He tuned the strings and began a brief scale. John still slept on. Sherlock plunged into the first piece he fully composed while living with John. It wasn't perfect and one hundred per cent the way Sherlock wanted it to be, but it was so close. He made it thought the first three minutes before John's sleepy steps could be heard.

John wandered into the room and looked about. He stared at Sherlock and slowly rubbed his eyes.

"So I don't want to ask a stupid question, but why are you playing the violin this early in the morning?" John asked.

"I'm bored. I play the violin. It was a logical thing to do," Sherlock said. He didn't break in the music to answer John, just divided his focus.

John nodded as if that was a perfectly rational path of thought. "Am I not going back to sleep, then?"

"You can do whatever you want to. I am not forcing you to stay awake with me."

"Yeah, but I doubt I'll be able to sleep with your playing. It's gorgeous, by the way. I'm not trying to complain. Honestly that's the most excellent solo violin playing that I've ever heard."

"How much have you heard?" Sherlock knew it wasn't much, but he warmed to the compliment anyways.

"Not that much, to be honest. It doesn't mean I can't recognise beauty and skill in it."

Sherlock gave a mild hrumph and kept playing.

John made himself a cuppa, having given up sleep as a lost cause, and sat himself down in the armchair. He watched Sherlock sway with the melody of his music, eyes closed and entirely lost to the sound. John could have happily given up a full night's sleep just to listen to Sherlock play. He had never been one for classics, thought John did attempt the clarinet in primary school. There was something about Sherlock. His expression, his posture, something that drew John in.

Sherlock finished the piece with a flourish and John wore a satisfied, sleepy smile.

"When did you learn to play the violin?" John asked conversationally.

Sherlock took a seat in his arm chair opposite John's and rested the violin across his lap. "I first started when I was four years old. I needed something to occupy my time because everyone around me was incredibly dull."

"You learned that at four?" John looked incredulous.

"No, I began at four," Sherlock corrected, "I began that piece after the first time I realized I was in love."

John wasn't sure why the concept of Sherlock in love seemed so odd to him. Or why it caused a twinge of jealousy in him. He had no claim to the man beyond flatmates. And he was in a relationship with Mary.

"It was beautiful," John said. Sherlock studied the faraway look in John's eyes, wondering if maybe John was starting to remember.

Every night the rest of the week, Sherlock would play that piece and John would sit to listen. Once Sherlock was finished, John would ask him more about the love that inspired it. By the end of the week, John knew the person was shorter than Sherlock, had blonde hair, eyes that were a dark blue, enjoyed Chinese food over Thai, and thought Sherlock was brilliant.

In his mind's eye, John saw a girl who fit the bill. She was overly tall, but still shorter than Sherlock's absurd height. She was nearly as skinny as Sherlock and liked to poke fun at his dietary habits. John saw her as steadfastly loyal with a mind nearly as quick as Sherlock's.

"Do you still talk to her?" John asked.

"Him. And not really. He's forgotten me by now." Sherlock said. He wanted to cry. It had been such a long time since Sherlock really wanted to cry. The last time he was ten and had broken his arm. He had fallen out of a tree trying to get to a bee hive. Mycroft had to carry him back to the house so Sherlock could be driven to the hospital.

John tried to hide his reaction to the _him_. It wouldn't do to seem homophobic. He had Harry after all.

"I'm sorry," John offered. He didn't know why he was apologising; it just felt like the right thing to do.

Sherlock merely nodded. John knew Sherlock hadn't really heard his condolences. Sherlock was staring into the distance, the look of someone lost in the past. John knew the feeling well and knew when to respect it.

Eventually Sherlock came back to John and asked, "What about you. Tell me of your first love."

Sherlock already knew the answer. Knew the whole story, in fact. He wanted to hear John tell it again, though. He wanted to see if John had the same facial expressions and the same inflection in his voice as he did the first time telling Sherlock of Anna.

Sherlock was pleased to see that John did. As he recounted his first few years at uni with Anna, John's voice held the same tone as it did the first time around. He smiled and frowned at the same parts. John made similar hand motions as well. Sherlock was cataloguing all of this and storing it away in his personal study of John Watson.

At the end of the story, Pumpkin wandered in and sat down primly.

"I hate cats," Sherlock said absently.

"What?" John looked offended, "I told you before you moved in that I have a cat."

"Yes, well. I dislike them."

"That just has to suck for you, then."

"It'll get into my experiments."

"Put them places where cats can't get."

"Cats can get everywhere."

"Not true."

"Name one place you think this animal can't invade and I will prove you wrong."

John thought for a moment, "The fridge."

"Cat hair has already magicked its way into the fridge. Try again."

"The freezer."

"A stupid guess considering the same principle that applied to the fridge also applies to the freezer."

"Your room. You never let Pumpkin into you room and are always incredibly careful to make sure the door is firmly closed."

"Doesn't mean the dander doesn't get in."

Sensing a loss, John said firmly, "I am not getting rid of my cat."

"You're allergic to cats with hair and dander!" Sherlock said. He practically jumped out of his chair. It was true. John was taking allergy medication all the time. He was allergic to cat and their hair and dander and the whole mess of it. The only cats John wasn't allergic to were hairless ones. Sherlock thought it one of the most stupid things he had ever seen, a man, a doctor no less, who was allergic to cats going out and getting a cat.

"The cat was a present from Harry. And I was lonely as hell!" John retorted.

Sherlock thought maybe if he pushed just a little more, "Why were you so lonely that your alcoholic sister, who you don't even get on with, would give you a cat? What was so horrible that she offered you substitute companionship because she knew she herself wasn't what you wanted at the time?"

There it was. Sherlock had it. He pushed all the right emotional buttons.

"Because you fucking died!" John shouted.

The flat was silent. John had stood up, his chest heaving. He dropped his head into his hands and pressed the hells against his eyes.

"I-I Can't think," John stuttered out, "I can't think. My head hurts." _God what was that pounding?_ John thought. It ached so deeply in his mind that he thought he was going to pass out. "I-I can't."

John turned and fled to his room. Sherlock was triumphant. He had found the trigger that brought John's memories back. The headache was to be expected. Maybe if he let John alone for the night all would be well in the morning.

Oh how he was wrong.

Sherlock sat up all night waiting for John to emerge from his room. The sun crept up over London and still John was locked in. Noon rolled around and Sherlock thought he heard movement from the other side of John's door. It wasn't until five in the evening that John emerged.

He was rubbing his eyes and looked groggy.

Sherlock looked at him expectantly from his position on the sofa.

" 'ello," John said. He wandered into the kitchen to begin his morning routing.

Sherlock went to him, keeping a reasonable distance away.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"Hm?" John responded.

"John tell me, what do I plan to do when I retire?" Sherlock asked. He knew John knew the answer. They had countless discussions about where they would retire to. Before Sherlock faked his death, they had agreed to retire to the country and keep bees. John would know that. They had agreed upon it.

"I've no idea what you plan to do when you retire Sherlock. To be honest, I'm not even entirely clear on what you do for the Met."

Sherlock's heart sank like a stone.

He tried again, "John, what is it that you and Molly Hooper call me behind my back? You both think you're clever and are hiding it, but I know what it is."

John and Molly had been calling Sherlock Grease Lighting. Partially because they both believed the reference to be alien to Sherlock, and mostly because of how fast Sherlock's mind worked. Sherlock had seen John mime running a comb through the side of his hair when John believed himself out of Sherlock's visual range. He had also seen Molly giggle at the motion.

"Molly who?" John asked. Despite working in the same hospital, John and Molly rarely crossed paths. He vaguely recognized the name as someone associated with Bart's, but was still too sleepy to place it exactly.

Sherlock's heart nearly gave in. John didn't remember. He didn't know who Molly was. John loved Molly, they were friends. John couldn't remember her.

His mind was bussing around trying to fit together John's outburst the previous night and the fact that his memory was still gone. _It didn't fit. It didn't fit!_ John was supposed to remember. He said it_. "Because you fucking died!"_ That meant he remembered. It was something John would only say if he remembered Sherlock's death and its personal impact on him.

But John didn't remember. He was looking at Sherlock the same way he had looked at him for the past few weeks. There was no love in John's eyes. Fondness, yes. Admiration, yes. But not love. That was not the look of one man to his husband. That was the look of a man to his flatmate.

Sherlock turned away. He couldn't keep looking at John and expecting to see love when all he got was friendship. He had spent so much time before their relationship wanted John to look at him with something beyond friendship. To see that old expression back again was like going back to when John didn't love him.

The thought struck Sherlock. He pulled on his jacket without another word and left Baker Street.

_John didn't love him._


	9. Chapter 9

**What immortal hand or eye**

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he had been out this time; Moran did so love to keep his internal clock skewed.

The room was different once again. This was the fourth room change since Sherlock had gotten to…wherever he was. Moran had said he liked to change the rooms because it kept Sherlock from getting comfortable in any environment.

After the red room with the four poster bed, Sherlock had been moved to a room that looked fit for a child. The furnishings were childproof and everything was decorated in a sunny, gender neutral yellow. There were balloons on the walls and a cloud in one corner. There was even a false window on the wall. Of course, Sherlock would not be allowed a real window, but the false one added to his sense of imprisonment.

In the child's room, Moran had kept him chained to an over-sized crib.

"I don't really know the point Jim was trying to make with this set up," Moran had admitted the first time Sherlock woke up to the new arrangement. "I just know he wanted me to have you like this.

During his time there, Sherlock slowly had all independence stripped away. He was not permitted to use the bathroom and was instead fitted with a nappy. He was hand fed by Moran. Initially, hand feeding had not gone well. Sherlock refused the food as long as he was able. He gave in, though. He could feel his independence leaving him. The only thing that drew him on was the thought of returning to John once Moran was dead.

This room that Sherlock had woken to, the fourth design, was completely different. Sherlock couldn't see anything. The entire room was blacked out. There was no difference between having his eyes opened or closed. It was all the same nothingness.

Sherlock moved about trying to feel the edges of the room. He reasoned that it was once again a four wall enclosure. It was much smaller than his previous ones, though. This one was a perfect four foot square. Sherlock could feel no doors, no windows, nothing but the smooth wall. He was fairly certain it was cement, but the texture felt wrong somehow. He couldn't place it.

"Moran," Sherlock said. It wasn't a cry for help, nor an act of desperation. Sherlock was trying o see if his studies in echolocation were successful.

Rather than have adequate time to judge the height of the ceiling, he was greeted by a great booming voice that seemed to be closing on his from all directions.

"What do you want?" the voice demanded.

Something in Sherlock's mind told him it was Moran.

"Why the room change again? Jim must have his reasons."

"This one I actually understand, Holmes."

"Tell me."

Of course Moran wouldn't comply. "I rather like this one. Honestly, it is the last one you're going to be in. Jim liked the idea of having the last thing you ever see be nothing. I think he found the concept romantic in some way. The great man of observation unable to see. Tell me, what can you deduce from the darkness?"

"Nothing."

"Exactly!" Moran sounded gleeful, as though he had just won some sort of desperately sought after prize.

"I wonder if you would like to hear John cry. I have this handy little device in his bedroom. Did you know, Sherlock, that he cries to you at night? The poor doctor's nightmares have been replaced with horrors you have afflicted. Are you proud to be more damaging than years at war?"

Sherlock was silent. He would not give Moran the satisfaction of hearing his reaction. He hoped that the darkness worked both ways. He couldn't see Moran, but then again neither could Moran see him. It was a small comfort.

The sound of static filled Sherlock's enclosure and invaded his ears. After a moment, the static faded away, replaced by small whimpering sound that was unmistakable. The first time Sherlock had heard that sound was a week after he and John had moved in together. The first time he heard that sound up close was the first night he and John had shared a bed.

John's nightmares always started in little whimpers that he would be ashamed to know were heard by someone other than Sherlock. He knew what was coming. He hated it, but he knew.

"Oh god no. Stop. Please don't," came John's voice. He sounded small, impossibly small like he never should.

Sherlock sat on the floor. He drew his knees to his chest and shut his eyes tight. John's nightmares could last for hours when just left to his own devices.

"Come back down. Love, come back down!" John was still relatively quiet. "Sherlock, anything. Come back down to me."

Sherlock dug his nails into his palms and concentrated on trying to map the resulting crescents just by feel.

John started shouting. He was begging Sherlock not to jump. John was progressively getting louder until he was shouting and Sherlock knew he would have been thrashing at that point. He wanted to comfort John the way he used to. He knew John would settle within three minutes if Sherlock was there.

Moran kept the tape of John's nightmares playing for three hours. He had plenty of ammunition. That recorder had been in John's room for a week. He could keep Sherlock in the darkness with only John's cries for at least 35 hours, and that was with no repeats. Moran smiled at that fact and the knowledge that Sherlock was aware of just how long Moran could hold him.

The hours stretched on and Sherlock buried himself deeper in his subconscious. He tried to block out John's voice, but he was never really able to block out anything John related. The best Sherlock managed was keeping his eyes shut and his hands clenched. He wasn't even sure he was able to keep his expression controlled. No, he was sure he couldn't keep his expression controlled. Again, the darkness brought a small mercy.

After the day's three hour allotment, Moran left Sherlock in silence. He went to get some lunch. Sherlock would be fine for a while.

"How long do you think our darling detective can last, Sebbie?" Moriarty had asked him at the foundation of the dark room plan.

"I don't really know, boss," Moran replied indifferently.

Moriarty had given him a petulant look from his perch on the edge of their bed. "Tell me, Sebbie, do I bore you?"

"Not at all."

"Are you sure, darling? If I were locked in a pitch black room, would you come to get me?" Moriarty rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.

Moran was leaning against the wall watching Moriarty complain at him.

"Yeah, boss. I'd come for you. And I promise you're not boring." Moran pulled out a fag and lit it. Jim crinkled his nose and gave him a surly look.

"Sebbie, you know I hate when you smoke in our room," Moriarty whinged.

Moran flicked his ash onto the carpet and bore a defiant look.

"Put it out." Moriarty carried on.

Moran flick ashes again and ignored Moriarty's complaints.

"I'll buy you a pretty new gun if you put the fucking fag out and come to bed."

Moran was close to the filter anyways. He knew Jim just wanted a reason to spoil him. Still, Moran crushed the remains into an ash tray and went to stand by the side of the bed.

"Tell me, Sebbie, what makes everyone else so boring? Why are there so many boring people in the world? Never become boring." Moriarty propped himself up on one elbow, the blankets falling away from him.

Seb didn't bother trying to hide his interest. Jim knew anyways. Seeing the shift in Sebastian's posture, Jim gave a come hither look and sank back down into the bed.

Sebastian followed him down, caging Jim beneath him. He searched Jim's face for some sign of rejection, unsure of what he'd do if one of these times he saw it.

Sebastian kissed like he was drowning and needed air. Jim kissed like he wanted something just barely out of his grasp. Seb's hands pushed the sheet back to cradle Jim's bare hips. He hated sleeping in clothes. For all his bespoke suits, Jim slept naked and Sebastian loved him for it. He'd never say, though.

Jim wound his arms up around Sebastian's neck and raised his hips to grind against Seb's crotch.

"Fuck me, Seb." Jim pulled Seb's ear between his teeth and nipped around the lobe.

Sebastian grunted in response. He leaned back and pulled his shirt over his head. All of Seb's clothing was deposited to the floor. He pressed Jim down into the bed and trailed a path down Jim's body. Goosebumps rose where Seb's lips touched.

Sebastian raised Jim's hips up and licked up the cleft of his arse. Jim shuddered, but didn't make a sound. Seb repeated the motion and gradually began licking Jim open. Jim's hand struggled to fist in Seb's short hair and he began grinding against Seb's tongue. They kept a pace until Seb was tongue fucking Jim's hole and pulling out little moans with each movement.

Sebastian moved up and kissed Jim; mimicking the short, frequent thrusts he had just been lavishing on Jim's arse.

"Suck me," Sebastian insisted against Jim's lips.

In a rare moment of obedience, Jim swapped their positions to bend over Seb's cock. He teased his tongue along the slit and smeared his tongue with the pre-come leaking there.

"Do you want to fuck me, Seb?" Jim teased. He curled his tongue along the shaft and traced the veins from base to tip. "Tell me. I'll get your pretty cock all nice and slick so you can fuck me just how you like it."

Seb gripped Jim's head as lips were wrapped entire around his cock. They began slow, they always began this slow. Seb let Jim gradually work up to taking in his whole length. Then, cradling the back of Jim's head, Seb began to fuck his face.

Jim let his jaw go slack and relaxed his throat. This was Sebastian's favourite part, and Jim was pleased to supply such pleasure. Seb's thrusts were short and controlled; measured over years of repetition.

Sebastian pulled out of Jim's mouth. "Stop or I'll come."

Jim pressed his face against Seb's cock, too just the head in, and purred around it.

"Jim, keep at it if you want to wait," Sebastian warned again.

"I can't wait. Sebbie fuck me." Jim pressed Sebastian to lie flat against the pillows. He braced himself above Seb and against the headboard. Slowly, oh god so slowly, Jim lowered himself down onto Seb's cock.

Seb bottomed out and kept a fierce grip on Jim's hips.

"Move, damnit," Sebastian complained.

"Mhm, what was that? That didn't sound terribly nice." Jim pouted. To be fair, it wasn't so much a pout than a desperate tease. He did try, though.

"Please move, damnit."

Jim raised himself up and sank back down in one smooth motion. Seb's hands stayed on Jim's hips and guided him up and down. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back into the support of the absurd pillows Jim insisted stayed on their bed.

"No!" Jim snapped, "Look at me. I want you to look at me when you come."

Reluctantly, Sebastian raised his head again and met Jim's eyes. They stayed like that moving in a well-known rhythm. Jim bounced eagerly on Seb's cock and kept begging for "Harder" and "More" and "Oh yes just there."

Without warning, Jim pitched forwards and came across Sebastian's stomach. He rode out his orgasm, breathing heavily. Sebastian kept his eyes up, still. Watching Jim shatter was his favourite pastime.

"Come on, Sebbie. Come inside me. I know you want to." Jim kept moving, fucking himself and begging Seb to come. "Fucking come, Sebastian."

It was that easy. A direct order and Sebastian was emptying himself into Jim's arse. He couldn't be sure if the resulting sound was his or Jim's. It didn't really matter.

Jim leaned down and licked up his semen that roped lines across Sebastian's chest. He kept moving forwards and raised one eyebrow expectantly.

"No, Jim. Not this time." Sebastian turned his head away.

Jim didn't move.

"Fine," Sebastian conceded and tipped his head forwards to kiss Jim. His mouth was filled with Jim's come and he swallowed it down. He swiped a hand across his mouth and made a dissatisfied sound.

"You're disgusting," Seb said. He smiled despite himself. Jim was gross, but he was able to deal with it. The sex was fantastic, anyways.

They stayed like that for the next few hours. Jim became restless and had to move around. He had spent the rest of the day putting finishing touches on his plans for the Dark Room and making charts that mapped out his predictions for the Dark Room's effect on Sherlock's psyche.

Moran finished up his lunch and went back to check on Sherlock. The screen could not show him Sherlock, but the room was specially designed to be a larger version of animal containment chambers to monitor life signs.

Sherlock's heart rate, breathing rate, weight, and mass were all reported on the screen. An infrared live feed of the room showed Sherlock to be sitting stationary in the leftmost side. According to the motion map, he had no moved since the recording of John first began. _What a boring rat,_ Moran thought, _he needs some incentive._

Sherlock kept to the same area he had sat down in. There were no sounds, not even the static of recorded nothingness. Moran had stopped the recording. Sherlock's internal clock told him it was another three hours before Moran's voice returned to the speaker.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he said, "What am I to do with you now?" There was a pause before Moran's cocky tone came back with, "And god said let there be light." Sherlock could hear the grin.

He had a split second to register it before forcing his head down into the fold where his arms still held his knees to his chest. The lights were blindingly bright. Even to a normal perspective, the lights were unnecessarily shocking. Sherlock had spent the past six hours in utter darkness. The light burned even through his makeshift shield.

Sherlock would not give the soldier the satisfaction of crying out. He couldn't help the flinch, though.

It took a while for Sherlock's eyes to adjust to the light. He opened them in increments and struggled to evaluate where he was.

The room was broad, empty, and white. The walls were white, the floor and ceiling were white. All except for a camera that was situated in the centre of the ceiling.

Sherlock stared right at it defiantly. "Infrared I assume? I thought that a military man of your standards would go beyond such basic tactics. Come now, are you not supposed to be driving me mad? Do you think I have no heard John's pain?"

Sherlock was standing now, circling around the camera, knowing it would swivel to follow his path.

"Tell me Tiger," Sherlock challenged, "Did your master set this up? Did your master outline all the things that he expected of you? How are you doing, Tiger? Are your results as they should be? I am not insane yet. Is that a failure, Tiger?" Sherlock was still walking in a circle, demanding an answer from the man hiding behind a camera.

The microphone clicked on and Sherlock heard the static as Moran was waiting to speak.

Finally, Moran said, "I have no failures for you, Sherlock." His voice was like a bullet. "I know you expect everyone to be imperfect save for you and your precious John, but there are such plans for you."

He sounded so sure.

The room filled with gas. Sherlock couldn't smell it, but going by the loss of equilibrium, he had a fair guess as to what it was. Sherlock thought of home.

Moran slid the syringe into Sherlock and whispered, "How long has it been since your last time? I remember the last time I saw you like this. Jim dragged me to a club and you were so strung out. I think you had spent most of the night powerballing. Jim kept saying how beautiful you were and calling you sweetheart. I hated you from then."

Sherlock turned his head to watch the plunger empty the mixture into his system. _Speedball_, Sherlock's mind and past experience provided, _he's giving me speedball_. The cocaine and heroin mixed around Sherlock's brain and tangled his thoughts.

Sherlock fought against the drug. _Clean, I'm clean_, his brain screamed. Sherlock vision began to blur and he knew the symptoms that would soon over take him. _Incoherence, paranoia, psychosis_, Sherlock ticked off. Oh god, John was going to kill him. He was clean. He and John had worked so hard.

Sherlock's mind didn't take long to give in to the high. He didn't want it. There was no stopping now, though. It was already coursing through his system and the familiar feeling of sharp reality settled in.

From Moran's point of view, Sherlock's face was strained. It wasn't contorted, but each muscle was pulled tight around a set jaw. He could actually watch as the pale face fought for control. And the exact second Sherlock's eyes betrayed something even close to fear, Moran knew he had won.

Sherlock was still struggling to get clean when he met John. The look of shock John had when he first found out that Sherlock was a junkie was encouragement to really clean himself up. What would John say if Sherlock not only returned from the dead, but returned a cocaine addict once again?

Sherlock had used John as a crutch while trying to break away from fags. Having a live-in doctor who was also quite strong and not above withholding sex gave him enough incentive to be only on nicotine patches within two months. Sherlock still had his days of weakness, but John was always there to help out in any way he could.

Sherlock rolled over and found himself in the large four poster bed once again. Moran was setting a cup of tea at his bedside. Sherlock knew without moving that the high-tech chain was cone again binding him.

Sherlock looked suspiciously at the tea. He examined the cup, the liquid, and the saucer it at in. Satisfied, he slowly drank. It wasn't nearly as good as tea John made, but it was passable. Sipping the drug free-tea, Sherlock realized there was a familiar undercurrent in his mind.

"Enjoy your high?" Moran asked lightly.

"Is that the plan then? Try some things, and if nothing else works force drugs on me?"

"That's largely the plan, yeah. You see, after the Dark Room, your vital signs weren't where Jim had predicted. Not surprising. Jim didn't really think it would have the desired effect. Still fun to try, though. Don't think I forgot about those bombs, either. I've still got that all taken care of. I'm just debating when to set them off. Jim left me a few options."

Moran stood and left, locking the door shut behind him.

Sherlock sat and began reviewing all the data he had collected from his time with Moran. This was never a physical confrontation. Sherlock knew Moran could easily take him in a fight. It had to be something clever. He needed to get out of there even more so than before. If Moran injected him again, Sherlock thought he would go back to abusing such substances.

Sherlock hunched over and curled into a ball. He hoped Moran would assume he was going to sleep. Sherlock had already examined the lock the first time. He knew Mycroft had one and had a general knowledge on how to get out. He began working and ignored the voice in his mind that supplied the time he had left.


	10. Chapter 10

John went about the flat completely oblivious to his outburst. As far as he was aware, Sherlock had urgent business to attend to and had to dash out. He wasn't particularly surprised. Sherlock was rarely stationary unless he was in one of his moods.

After leaving in a hurry, Sherlock wandered the back alleys of London trying to clear his head. He wasn't going anywhere. He certainly wasn't running away. No, never running away. Just putting some distance between himself and the problem.

The thought of John not loving him hurt worse than John not remembering him. Sherlock pulled his collar up against the wind and turned down an alley he knew would dump him closer to Lacuna.

Once there, Sherlock pushed his way in. He pointedly ignored the other patients and went straight to the receptionist.

"Miss Svevo," Sherlock called. The young woman was nowhere to be seen. Not to be hindered by one careless woman's blunder, Sherlock pushed his way through the door into the first examination room.

"Dr Mierzwiak," Sherlock said, poking his head into the first room. There was no answer. He continued on in a similar fashion calling into the second and third rooms.

Finally, Howard Mierzwiak emerged from the fifth and final room in the hall.

"What on earth-" he began, but halted when he saw who it was. "Sir I told you what it was you wanted to know. Get the hell out of my offices!"

Sherlock made no sign of moving. "Mary Svevo. You know, doctor, the girl you're shagging who isn't your wife?" Sherlock tilted his head and his eyes practically forced all of Howard's attention. "I am assuming she is back in that fifth room just so you can erase from her memory all remnants of your adultery. Am I right?"

Dr Mierzwiak didn't answer. Sherlock would tell just from his face that he did indeed have the receptionist back in room five.

"How would our wife like to hear of this? I can have a car sent to get her immediately, no matter where she is." Sherlock grinned at the shorter man, teeth out and eyes alight, begging for Howard to challenge him.

"No. Don't call her," Howard said, "I'll tell you what you need. Just let my personal life out of this, won't you?"

"I have no interest in the stupid mundanities of a man as foolish in relationships as you. What I was to know is the cause and subsequent result of a subject who has had a flash of memory due to outside stimuli, but does not recall that memory a mere hours later."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"A subject, when pushed, remembered for a brief moment before complaining of a headache. The subject then proceeded to sleep for longer than their personal average. Upon awakening, the subject had no memory of the outburst of memory, the headache, or the thing that your procedure erased. What does that mean? The flash and then reverting back to the same stage of memory loss. Will the subject be hurt?"

Dr Mierzwiak shook his head. "Hurt? No. He'll be a little groggy like you said, but it seems he slept with no problems and awoke with no lasting mental damage. It means that it may be much easier to trigger he subject now, though. That flash could have been the brain's own defence mechanism. Spitting out information quickly and then reverting back to the state of the procedure."

"He is not hurt? His memory is not irreparably damaged and I can continue seeking triggers?"

Dr Mierzwiak thought for a moment. "I would hold back for another day after before attempting to bring the memory back again. Any sooner could risk damage to the long and short term memory sections of the brain."

"Yes, but that flash of memory, did it hurt him?" Sherlock wanted physically force the man into coherent answers.

"No. It didn't hurt him more than just a bad headache."

Sherlock stopped in his pacing. "He's going to be fine."

"Yes, yes. That little lapse isn't going to permanently damage his memory."

"Good."

Sherlock turned and left, still pointedly ignoring the desolate faces that were waiting for the doctor to soothe their woes. He hailed a cab back to 221B.

Sherlock pushed the door open and called out, "John! I'm back. Sorry I-"

He cut off and stopped walking. Mary was pulling back from leaning on John and giving Sherlock a "fuck you" sort of look. John was turned around looking at Sherlock and couldn't see the loathing in Mary's face.

"Sorry, Sherlock. Glad you're back," John said. He turned from his position on the sofa to sit properly. "Sherlock this is Mary. I don't know if I've ever properly introduced you two."

Mary dropped the scowl and pulled up a face all sunshine. She waved at Sherlock.

"Hello, Sherlock," Mary said brightly, "It's great to meet you. I've heard so much about you, both from John and the news."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curved upwards. _Silly girl._

"Really, Mary?" Sherlock feigned surprise, "What has John been telling you? All bad I hope."

Sherlock winked at John. From where John was standing, the wink was not lost on Mary. Her jaw gave a tick, but otherwise didn't betray anything. John, god love him, took the wink all in stride just as he did everything Sherlock did.

Mary over exaggerated her enthusiasm for Sherlock's work.

"You're just so brilliant," she gushed, "all that running around you do with guns and abusing those around you. And the cases you solve without any credit. You use that like it give you a right to be horrible to everyone. I mean, you're just so smart. I wish average dull people like me could understand the magnitude of your perfection."

John looked at her, and Mary thought that her outburst was probably too obvious.

"Do you not like Sherlock?" John asked.

"Not particularly, no." Mary wasn't going to lie to John. She's fight for him, but not lie. There was more to their relationship than that.

"Miss Morstan is under the impression that you do not appreciate her, John," Sherlock supplied.

John turned to Mary and looked at her uncertainly. "Is that true?"

Mary shook her head, "No John, I don't think you treat me badly at all. You're so sweet and lovely." She walked over to him and wound one arm around his waist.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but stayed silent.

"I've been good to you, haven't I?" John looked unsure, seeking confirmation that he had indeed done good by Mary.

"Of course. I've never thought anything different."

"Really?" Sherlock interjected, "You've never wondered why he won't kiss you or why he prefers to spend his time in the company of a sociopath rather than with you?"

"He spends more time with you because you live together," Mary retorted.

"I always go out with you," John said. He was still looking at Mary, blue eyes searching her face for reassurance.

Mary nodded. She leaned up and kissed John. It was chaste, quick, and John didn't open up to her the way Sherlock knew he opened up to little kisses. That knowledge made him smile. Sherlock could see that Mary knew something was wrong as well. Her pride kept her mouth shut tight.

"I've got some things I need to work on at home for class and stuff. I'll see you later." Mary grabbed her jacket and purse and left.

"What was that for?" John asked.

"It's true. You should ask her in private sometime if that fact that you don't kiss her keeps her up at night. I can tell you it does just by looking at her and then watching the way you two interact. I wouldn't be surprised if her sister has already talked to her about you. No doubt the sister thinks you're gay."

"I'm not gay," John said.

"Wrong."

"Sherlock, I'm not actually gay."

"Whatever label you choose to put on it, you do in fact find men attractive."

"No, I find women attractive."

"No, John!" Sherlock moved forwards and invaded John's personal space, "You have yourself deluded into denying your sexuality because of the homophobia of your father and those around you while in the military. Even at medical school there was the undercurrent of us and them. Obscure John Watson wasn't about to brand himself a _them_, so you dated women. Many in fact and far more women than your peers. This earned you a reputation that solidified your _us_ status."

Sherlock waited for John's reaction. None came. John stood still and silent and completely in control of himself.

"Do not think that you can just observe and suddenly understand everything about me. Do not presume to know my life just because you are cleverer than me."

Sherlock wanted to tell John that he knew these things because John had told him. They had spent multiple night sitting up in bed and just talking. Sherlock enjoying John's proximity and the face that John was so willing to share intimate details of his life. Sherlock couldn't forget those nights if he tried. It was such a turn of events that John should be the one to delete things.

As it was, Sherlock merely inclined his head in defeat and left John to seethe in the sitting room alone.

Not a single sound was heard from behind Sherlock's bedroom door. He wanted to emerge and play the violin again, but thought that, under the circumstances, a loss of sleep would not be welcome.

The next morning, John left early for work. He wrote a note telling Sherlock he would be home late because he was getting dinner with Mary. What he didn't write on the note was that he needed to clean up the mess Sherlock had made of his relationship. Sherlock understood that anyway.

It was a testament to how much John was still the same when Sherlock could predict what restaurant John would take Mary for an apology dinner.

Later that night, Sherlock wandered down Highgate Road at a respectable distance from John and Mary. He knew John was taking her to Bull & Last. It was just nice enough to be decent and it was just casual enough to not be overbearing. John often frequented it as a make-up spot.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth perked up; _At least his tastes haven't changed_.

John showed Mary in, holding the door like a gentleman and keeping one hand at the small of her back. She thanked him and Sherlock scowled at the smile John carried. It was a confident smile, possessive.

They took a table towards the back of the restaurant and Sherlock insisted on being seated five tables away despite the protests from the maître d' that a window seat would certainly be far more to his liking.

Sherlock was shielded by two other patrons and behind John. He watched over the edge of his menu and met Mary's eyes. She startled a bit and glared, letting Sherlock know he wasn't welcome.

John noticed the change and Sherlock saw him lean forwards and take her hand.

_Asking if something is wrong_, Sherlock thought. How considerate of him.

Mary was shaking her head and was back to smiling adoringly at John. No matter how much Sherlock disliked her, he saw the way Mary looked at John. She loved him. For a brief moment, Sherlock wondered if he used to look at John like that. Even before they were married. Could people tell even then that Sherlock was so infatuated with someone as unassuming as John?

Mary turned her hand around and took John's in it. They ordered like that and talked and smiled like that, keeping their fingers knitted on the table so that anyone who walked by could see how happy they were.

Sherlock didn't want to look. He didn't want to see if John wore the same adoring look for Mary that used to wear for Sherlock.

Sherlock had to waive a waiter away three times before the kid understood and just left him alone. He wasn't there to eat, why was that so difficult for people to understand?

John and Mary, however, were heartily enjoying their food. They kept the conversation going and Sherlock read Mary's lips in order to follow. There wasn't much that John was talking about that Sherlock didn't' already know.

He could tell from what Mary was saying that they were talking about James Bond. John loved Bond. Sherlock knew that John's first celebrity crush was Timothy Dalton. He could tell that Mary shared John's love of Bond and they were eagerly swapping favourite scenes from the franchise.

The longer Sherlock sat and watched them, the more upset he got. He was angry with Mary, angry with John, sad for every reason in between. He shoved these thoughts down and stood. The date had gone on long enough.

John looked up as something rested heavily on his uninjured shoulder. Sherlock had his hand there and was smiling.

"John, great to see you here. And Mary. How nice to see you again," Sherlock beamed. For John, he could be cordial.

Mary merely nodded in Sherlock's general direction, unwilling to fully acknowledge his presence. Sherlock grabbed a chair and pulled it up to their table, turning a deaf ear to John's protests.

John leaned over and whisper-shouted in Sherlock's ear, "I am on a date. With my girlfriend. Not my girlfriend and my flatmate. Just us. You need to leave, Sherlock."

Sherlock made no efforts to stifle his volume. "I'm not going to leave. You often make efforts to get me to eat. Here I am ready to eat out with you and you are turning me away. Not much concern when it inconveniences you."

"No," John protested, "Sherlock you know that's not fair. You could just as easily go and have a sandwich at home or some toast and jam. You didn't need to come here and interrupt my plans. I'm sure you would be more than able to buy yourself take away."

"I wanted company."

"You never want company." John shook his head. He was clearly ready to plead if that is what it took for Sherlock to grant him and Mary some privacy.

"I wanted your company," Sherlock clarified.

John paused a second and Mary was horrified that he may be considering letting Sherlock stay. He was considering it. Damn him, but John couldn't help it.

Sherlock pressed again. "I have difficulty finding people who will keep my company. Forgive me for wanting to spent time with the only person who won't turn me away. I suppose I had misinterpreted our friendship."

Sherlock knew John had no room for further argument. Not only because John was incapable of shutting down his empathy, but also because Sherlock had called John his friend. It was the first time Sherlock had verbalised the position of friendship and John was surprised by the word. Sherlock didn't seem like the one for friends.

In fact, from what John could tell Sherlock had no friends at all. He never went down to the pub to meet people, he never went out with mates to a party, he was never invited anywhere by the Yarders. John had initially thought it strange that a man so talented and clever would not have any friends to speak of.

John turned to Mary and gave her a questioning look. She began to protest, but Sherlock jumped in before she would start.

"Thank you so much! The meal is on me. It has been such a long time since I've been out to eat." Sherlock folded a napkin in his lap and waved over a waiter.

John mouthed _I'm sorry_ to Mary. It was met with ice.

Sherlock was pleasant at least. John was grateful for that. Once Mary's ice melted, the dinner turned out to be pleasant enough. John was trying to mediate between the two of them. Neither could help the slip of insult, but both behaved for the most part.

After dinner, Sherlock hailed a cab.

"Coming, John?" he asked pointedly.

"I was going to take Mary back to hers first and then go home."

"Nonsense. Miss Morstan is capable of getting herself home. And I'm sure she wouldn't want you to pay the extra cab fare just to walk her to her door."

Mary was already in the cab shooting daggers in Sherlock's direction.

John turned to her and asked, "Is it ok if I just go with him?"

Mary nodded and left without a word.

John had the feeling he had just done something very wrong. Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, He climbed into Sherlock's cab and they turned for home.

That night, Sherlock played again. John wandered out to listen. The melody was soothing; it rose and fell with John's breathing. Soon, the doctor was asleep in his armchair, cuppa forgotten beside him. Still Sherlock played. He gently carried into the piece he had played John on their wedding day. Sherlock avoided playing it as often as he wanted to. He was still not entirely trusting of John's memory. While John was sleeping, though, Sherlock liked to tell him of his past life.

While drawing gorgeous melodies from the instrument, Sherlock thought of their wedding, their wedding night, and honeymoon; all of it. Every second was perfect because it made John that much more his. He had told John as much while they were still in the midst of it. John had just smiled and said he felt the same way.

Sherlock continued playing as John slept.

John didn't work the next day and Sherlock insisted on dragging him to St. Bart's morgue.

"Your medical knowledge is invaluable to my experiment," Sherlock had insisted.

When he walked through the doors, the familiar face of Molly Hooped blanched.

"Sh-Sherlock?" she said, "I thought you weren't going to come back. I mean I thought I'd never see you again."

Molly set down the petri dish she had been holding in favour of wrapping Sherlock up in a hug. John thought it odd that Sherlock allowed himself to be hugged.

Molly was wiping tears from her eyes and was more than a little flustered.

"Sherlock I'm just so happy to see you," Molly gushed again. She gave John an uncertain smile. From behind John, Sherlock wave a clearly negative gesture at Molly. He hoped she understood that John had no memory and had gotten a card saying as much just as Mycroft had.

Molly nodded slightly with her eyes, knowing that Sherlock would pick up on such a small gesture.

"How do you do Doctor Watson?" Molly offered her hand and John shook it gladly.

"I'm well. How did you know my name?"

Molly's quick thinking produced, "I read a lot of body tags. I like to put names to faces. You are excellent at autopsies."

John smiled, graciously accepting the praise.

"I don't often do them," John pointed out.

"Yes, but I've seen some of your past work. It is quite impressive."

John wasn't sure how he felt about Molly seeing his past work. He decided that it was harmless and to stop being so bloody paranoid.

Molly ran over to Sherlock as the man attempted to steal as severed hand.

"Oh no, John," Molly interjected, "That table of things is Sherlock's. We put things there that he can use rather than worrying about his walking in unannounced and stealing body parts."

"Makes sense," John agreed. He knew how Sherlock could get. There was a severed foot currently in the fridge. John had no doubts that, if able, he would bring a severed head back for his experiments.

Sherlock was still talking to Molly when John wandered over to a body and pulled gloves on. He began studying Molly's work. It was precise, obviously done with careful care.

"Nice sutures," John commented.

"Thanks," Molly blushed. "So why did you stop in today?"

"I need a hand," Sherlock said putting on his best winning smile.

"Sure," Molly replied, "What can I help you with?"

"No, I need a literal hand."

"Oh," Molly's face fell, but she recovered quickly. "I don't think I can do that for you."

"Why not?" Sherlock's expression changed to that of a rejected puppy.

John had to do a double take. He had never seen Sherlock be so expressive. He hoped it was genuinely for Molly and not just Sherlock mucking about. He had yet to see Sherlock put his excellent acting skills to use, but John suspected that a great mimic like Sherlock would have no problem fitting into the West End standard.

John watched the two of them go back and forth, a sparring he had a feeling had been done many times. In the end, Sherlock walked out of the morgue with a left hand all in plastic wrap and concealed in an unassuming brown paper bag.

"You can't get on the tube with that," John said.

"Can't I? You should see the things that I've managed on there. I once harpooned a pig and had to take the bloody harpoon on the tube because none of the cabs would take me. The harpoon and I were covered in pig's blood. It made for quite a story that I'm sure each person that was in the car with me indulges in frequently."

John looked caught between stunned, exasperated, and about to burst out laughing. Sherlock was allowed on the tube with the severed hand.

John was made the lab assistant for the evening. He fetched flasks and carefully measured an unlabelled acid for god knows what. Sherlock was entirely in his element and John couldn't help but stare. He was attracted to the mad man. John wasn't quite ready to admit that, but it was there. Just under the surface.

John sat in bed and listened to the now nightly tradition of Sherlock's violin. He shut his eyes to the flow and started losing himself in the melody. It was the perfect time for a sexuality crisis. John considered Sherlock to be an attractive man, but only within the limits of one guy to his mate. Not anything outside that. He didn't want to consider the possibility of being attracted to Sherlock as something more.

The music cradled his thoughts and was trying to pull him to sleep. John resisted it though. He still had yet to go downstairs and have his nightly tea. It was a ritual that cost him sleep, but he had no intention of stopping. John enjoyed their nightly…whatever it was that they had set up. He would miss it if suddenly this was no longer an assured occurrence.

So rather than being rocked to sleep, John slid out of bed and padded downstairs. He made tea and sat to listen for one more night.


	11. Chapter 11

**Could frame thy fearful symmetry? **

Sherlock was free. Oh god did it feel…far too easy. Lifting a fingerprint and unlocking the restraint was just too simple. There had to be more to it.

As Sherlock ran down the hallway, he was beginning to realize that every corner he turned, every door he passed was exactly the same. Not even the same the way that most people would look into an office and see sameness. They were perfectly identical. There was no variation in wall colour or length. There was the same slight gash on the left edge of every door. There was even a little bit of pulled carpet in the same spot down every hallway.

The whole floor was an exact replica of the one before it. She had to start marking where he'd been. No doubt in a maze this elegant built by a very dangerous man that there would be some specific setback. Sherlock had yet to find it. He was still running in circles and becoming more and more frustrated with every passing turn into more identical hallways.

Sherlock started pushing into doors. Each opened to an empty room. More perfectly identical empty rooms. His impeccable internal clock told him that thirty minutes had passed since lifting the fingerprint and running out of his room. That room was apparently the only one that was different. Sherlock wondered briefly which door led to the room furnished for a child and which room led to the Dark Room.

He didn't dwell on it, rather he kept moving.

Then, like a miracle, Sherlock pushed out and was on a rooftop.

_Indonesia,_ Sherlock's mind supplied, _I'm in Indonesia. Oh not another bloody rooftop. Doesn't the same thing get tiring?_

"Have fun?" came a voice from the edge. An impossible voice.

Sherlock whirled around and saw someone he never expected to see again.

"Victor," Sherlock breathed.

"Hello, love. Did you miss me?" Victor crooned. Beside him stood Moran, arms folded and holding what looked like a walkie-talkie.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock demanded. He hadn't seen Victor since university. He gladly had not seen him since then.

Victor gave a coy little wave and winked. "Did you miss me Sherlock?"

"Why are you here?"

"You see, darling, after out fun little stint at university, I missed you. I kept with the drugs and got mixed up with some nasty people."

Sherlock cringed. "What, did he bail you out?" He waited searched Victor Trevor's face. "He did. He gave you money. A lot of it. How did you repay him? Moriarty is not a man who liked to give things away for free. Oh! He owns you. He owns you and you like it. At least Moran over here has some sort of relationship with that fucked up man. You, however. He just uses you."

Sherlock stood taller. He had hit it spot on. He could see it in Victor's face.

Then Victor shifted, almost imperceptibly, to the left. Closer to Moran.

"Have you forgotten about the bombs, darling?" Victor prodded.

_No_, Sherlock thought, _how could I forget about the bombs. How could I forget about anything that important? Never._ Sherlock was thinking of a plan. He assumed Mycroft was still tracking him. _How long would it take for one of Mycroft's goons to realize that Sherlock was on top of a rooftop?_

Sherlock guessed about ten minutes. He needed to keep these morons talking for ten minutes so Mycroft could deal with everything.

"Poor Victor," Sherlock teased, "You really did love me, didn't you?"

Victor visibly set his shoulders, as though he was gearing up for one hell of a fight. "I loved you as much as one person could love such an incredible fuck up."

Sherlock didn't so much as flinch. He was used to Victor's words. Even when they were young, Victor was all bark (and a fair bit of bite if Sherlock was to be entirely honest).

"I have to say, I'm disappointed in your methods. I expected far harsher from the likes of you." Sherlock was now addressing Moran. It was true; he was anticipating more intense efforts to break him. Such high expectations were to be met when dealing with a man like Moran. Instead, he got three rooms and a startling easy to open tether.

"I'll be straightforward with you, Mr Holmes. If it was up to me you'd be dead by now, and the problem solved. However, some part of Victor's contract with Jim limits me," Moran said behind the smoke of his fag.

"Still Jim's whipping boy, then?" Sherlock asked. He turned again to Victor. "But you, Jim was the one who bailed you out. What did you give him that would result in such a touch?"

Sherlock's mind dusted off the files that he had long buried about Victor Trevor. He hadn't deleted the files, some part of him knowing that this man would come back to him. He mentally pulled out files that could be considered unreliable due to their history of substance abuse and the ones that were only them having sex; he didn't need those ever again.

Still, Sherlock wasn't deleting these files. He was setting them aside. Another corner of his mind that was free to gather dust.

Sherlock sifted through pillow talk. Even the times when he had hardly been listening. Victor was the most pliant when he was high and had just come, a fact Sherlock knew to take advantage of. On these occasions, Sherlock had asked about Victor's family. How could one not when sharing the bed of London's most powerful drug lord.

That was it.

Drugs were the connection.

Sherlock knew of fewer businesses more lucrative than drugs. He knew of fewer people who had mastered such a massive enterprise. Victor's father, William, had built his kingdom from the ground up. He started as a regular dealer, keeping his nose down and avoiding the likes of Curtis Warren's men. William started getting into dealing harder drugs; cocaine, heroin, ecstasy, and methamphetamines.

When William died (Sherlock knew "died" meant "killed by son") Victor took over the family business. Of course, he had already gotten his hands dirty, a trait that first brought him onto Sherlock's the radar. Victor had grown and grown and had quickly expanded his father's empire to be greater than Curtis Warren's even had potential for.

Sherlock's mind was still racing through his files on Victor. He was pulling out little titbits that seemed important. Complaints about his father here, the tail end of a phone conversation there, a few spots of complaints about clients; Sherlock was pulling them all trying to piece together the scenario.

"When I met you your father was still the king of that little kingdom. Then he _accidentally_ happened to fall on a knife-," Sherlock said, heavy on the sarcasm.

"My poor old man," Victor made the sign of the cross and cast his eyes upwards.

"-five times."

Victor rolled his eyes and the corner of his lip curved into a smile reminiscent of a fish hook.

"Darling," he drolled, "We must not stand on ceremony. What would happen if we dwelled on the past rather than sought a future?"

"I have no intention to seek a future with you."

"That's not entirely true. I remember a time when all you wanted was me." Victor rolled his shoulders and leaned his elbows back against the railing. The cement of the rooftop jutted out about two feet past the railing. Now one came up here unless they were looking to die. Sherlock didn't know that, but Moran did. The railing was a public service, a courtesy that someone thought to give to someone else. Moran knew this as well. Knew they were seeing the last view of a desperate man.

A lazy smile spread across Victor's face. His hair whipped a bit with the wind and his eyes never strayed from Sherlock's frame. He was cocky in a way that made girls want to look at him and guys want to be him.

Sherlock watched him, his mind was grasping for an answer.

"I never truly wanted you," was all Sherlock's brain could come up with.

"No, darling. You wanted the high I could give you. You wanted all that lovely cocaine and all the promises that came with it. Tell me, did you like my gift? I knew how much you used to love it. But big brother kept you so careful. You'd never admit it, but you know it's true." Victor shifted, muscles flexing like a panther pushing the limits. "You were so careful with mixing pleasures. How much did you miss the high, darling?"

Sherlock didn't even condescend to respond.

Victor could see it in his face. Another thing that Sherlock couldn't help but acknowledge: Victor had an uncanny ability to read people. Even if the people included Sherlock. There was a visible glint in Victor's emerald eyes before he pushed himself away from the rails. Sauntering forwards, he clicked the screen of his mobile on.

"I have this fun little app that Jim made me. Each little icon has a picture of one of your little buddies. I just have to tap their face and it goes boom!" He looked gleeful. Sickeningly gleeful.

Sherlock was counting down the seconds. By his estimations, there were four minutes until Mycroft would know of Sherlock's whereabouts. Another three for helicopter dispatch and travel time.

Oh what a world, what a world.

"Yes. I'm familiar with Jim's charades. What I don't get is how you went from begging Jim for money to bail your people out all the way up to being in his good graces enough to earn the detonator." It was true. Sherlock was still puzzling over the middle bit. He understood the beginning and end.

"Would you like me to tell you the story? It is quite riveting, I must admit. You did so love my little stories." Victor sat on the concrete facing Sherlock. He crossed his legs in his lap and set the phone down on one knee; keeping a finger hovering right over Mrs. Hudson's face.

Sherlock stayed standing. Moran stayed standing. Neither made any move to change that. Victor pressed on regardless.

"Well, I was in a bit of a situation. Drug cartels in South America are very powerful. Far more powerful than I like. So I needed a man to help me fix that. At the time, I was also in a bit of debt; expanding is expensive work. I branched out to the old well-established opium dens somewhere in Asia, I can't honestly remember. That cost a pretty penny. At the same time, Cuba and Mexico were getting a little rowdy.

I didn't have the money to investigate, so I called on a name that I was assured would help me out. Jim was a darling and was more than willing to assist me. It did come at a cost, though. I had to give him half of the work. I didn't want to. All that my dear daddy worked for handed to some stranger. But I'm sure you know that Jim is excellent as pushing the perfect buttons. He wanted my work, sooner or later he would get it. When he did, he made sure to keep me high up. People knew me, you see. It was a matter of keeping customers confident in a face that delivers.

Jim and I have been working closely for years now. I bet you didn't know it, but you've been on the fringes of my operation for ages. We used to get excited when you got properly close. What a dance that would be; Jim and I pulling poor little Sherlock and the doctor along."

Victor was beaming. He was so proud.

"The more time I spend with Jim the more I realized something," Victor continued. He looked right into Sherlock's eyes, voice hard as diamonds. "He was better than you."

Sherlock scoffed at the notion. "If he was so much better, why is he the one dead and I'm still around?"

"It was a slight flaw, I'll admit," Victor conceded just a tiny bit. "But he was far cleverer than you. And he could shag better." Victor's gloating little smile was vastly converse to the dark scowl that had settled over Moran's features the longer Victor had spoken.

Sherlock thought it time to acknowledge trouble in paradise.

"Moran. How did you like Jim bringing a new pet home?" Sherlock made an exaggerated pout and shook his head. "Was the kitty unhappy with daddy?"

Moran stayed on the wall and refused to rise to the bait. Victor, on the other hand, needed such things. He craved it.

"Sherlock, you can't be serious. Like my Jim would shag him. Moran is muscle. Jim left me everything. I'm far cleverer than you ever realized, Sherlock. Certainly far more clever than the Tiger."

The sound exploded through the air a mere instant before the bullet exploded through Victor's head.

Sherlock crouched low as John had taught him to do upon hearing gunshots. They had argued over Sherlock's lack of self-preservation and in the end Sherlock had allowed John to each him various things; one of them was to duck down at the sound of a gunshot when the source of said shot is not known. Previously, Sherlock would just whirl about and search for the source.

Victor's body had collapsed in a heap, blood leaking steadily from his head.

Moran reminded Sherlock of John. He stood with the same measure of calm. He held his gun with the same firm grip and quiet confidence.

Sherlock's head snapped up to the man still standing. He had to squint against the sunlight.

"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "Why now? Why not wait. Tell me."

Moran lit a fag. "I hated him. Jim told me I could kill him if I got bored or too annoyed with him." Moran was blasé about the entire ordeal. As if flicking his ashes onto the corpse of a man you just killed was something he had grown accustomed to. He probably was.

"Why did you keep him around so much? He was irrelevant."

"I like to watch them dance." Moran knelt to pick up the mobile. "This is mine, now."

His thumb caressed the side before racing to press every single icon on the screen.

Nothing happened, but Moran didn't know that. He didn't know that bombs went off at a testing facility rather than on the foundations of buildings. Sherlock had an inkling that nothing happened when a red dot flashed twice on Moran's forehead and then vanished. A small signal to Sherlock that the cavalry had arrived.

Victor still lie bleeding out between them.

"All this, Sherlock. Moriarty never wanted you to go insane. He-We knew that you could outlast nearly everything we put to you. He was flipping back and forth as to whether to give you the drugs or not. You know how changeable he could be." Moran shook his head. "This all was just killing time. Waiting to make sure every bomb was in its place and everything was set up. That's why it was so mild a containment. The real fun starts now that they're all dead and you've nothing left to live for.

I have a breaking wheel. I wonder how well you'd hold up on that. The Russians used to love it. Poor little Cossacks. Jim also bought me this fun drug that'll keep you awake for ages. I already know that you don't sleep on Doctor Watson's schedule. How would it feel if you didn't sleep at all?"

There was a slow build of eagerness in Moran's voice. Sherlock knew the man would take pleasure in torture.

"And don't even get me started on sensory deprivation." Moran rolled the R's like a purr. "A man so reliant on his senses would be useless without such things."

The red light flashed twice again on Moran's forehead. Mycroft's own little _get a move on_ nudge.

"I'm terribly sorry to chat and run, but I do think I need to be getting home," Sherlock said.

No sooner had the words left this mouth than Moran flattened himself against the rail. He heaved himself backwards as the second gunshot that day rang out. It clipped Moran's foot, but he was already on the other side of the rail.

With a last wink he flung himself over the side.

Sherlock rushed past Victor to the edge. He crossed the railing and looked down, careful to not actually fall off of the rooftop this time. He saw only stretches of the building and nothing beneath. There was no falling Moran. No body. It was as though Moran had evaporated.

A denizen ran up to Sherlock and handed him a mobile.

Pressing it to his ear, Sherlock snapped, "What is it Mycroft? I'm busy."

"Brother, good to see you too. No, you're very welcome for saving the lives of everyone you care about and helping you break out of a high security facility. What was that? You appreciate me rushing o your aid once again? Not to worry, that is what brothers are for," Mycroft said. Sherlock could practically hear the self-satisfied grin. "Or I'm sure you were going to say something along those lines, Sherlock."

"What do you want? I'm busy, Mycroft."

"It's John."

That's all it took. Sherlock was following and climbing into the helicopter ready to be whisked back to London. When he arrived at Mycroft's home, a small card was placed in his hand. Everything came crashing down.

**Sign No More**

It was such a rare day of sunshine over fair London Town.

_A good day to die_, John thought.

He had woken up that morning and pet Pumpkin. He made tea and put on the oatmeal coloured jumper he knew Sherlock used to secretly love.

John wrote a brief note, addressed it to Sherlock, and left the flat.

He went to the grave first accompanied by a foldable lawn chair. One that he had been using for the past few months now.

John sat and talked to Sherlock, right hand fiddling with his wedding ring.

"I still love you. I know you knew I'd always love you, but I like reminding you every once in a while. I hoped you noticed that I did that. Told you I loved you every day. It's true. I guess I also didn't want you to forget about me."

More fiddling. A bit of quiet.

"Though you never did forget me. Even on the days when you were in a bloody awful hurry and my leg was giving me trouble. You didn't leave me behind. I love you for that."

John knew the next bit by heart. He told the headstone every time he came.

"I love you for your eyes and your hair and the way you can smile with half of your face. I love you for the violin in the middle of the night and that piece you wrote just for my birthday. I love helping you work and watching you work. I love talking to you in the middle of the night and that first time you kissed me in front of the Yard. I'll tell you I love you every day for the rest of my life."

And John did. Even if it wasn't a Sunday and therefore a designated time to visit Sherlock's grave, John made sure to tell the open air that he loved Sherlock.

It was like a penance the soldier was happy to serve. It was also a call to come home. For Sherlock to hear the impossible plea and return.

John stood and folded up the chair. He laid it on the ground parallel to Sherlock's grave and left. He wouldn't need it anymore.

Next John went to Bart's. He kept his head down and his face turned away from CCTV. Fat lot of good it would do him, but he still wanted Mycroft to know. He wanted the bastard to see where he was going, to work out for himself why.

John took the elevator to the top and then climbed out onto the roof.

There was a barely-there stain where Moriarty's blood had spread across white cement. John pointedly walked right over it on his path to the edge.

He stood where Sherlock had stood.

John's nightmares had gotten steadily worse. His PTSD was becoming unmanageable. His limp was creeping back up on him, and his shoulder ached constantly.

John looked down and saw what Sherlock must've last seen. He didn't cry. He was calm and still and ignored that part of his brain that screamed that he was giving up.

John leaned forwards. He raised his left foot and-

John was jerked sharply backwards and he fell into a heap on top of another person. Said person let out a squeak as she was covered in a body twice her weight.

"Molly?" John asked, "Why are you up here."

"Don't. I don't know what you're playing at but stay off of this roof," Molly gasped. She was still in her white lab coat and looked scared. For all she was worth, Molly was still trying to stare John down.

John just sat up on and leaned his back against the raised ledge. Molly scooted over so that she was next to him.

"I miss him, too," she offered. Molly rested her head on John's shoulder.

The pair sat on the roof ignoring the wind and the cold and the setting sun.


	12. Chapter 12

_I've got something for you. Yard in 10. – GL_

Sherlock pocketed his phone. It was eleven o'clock at night and John was out on a date with Mary. That wasn't going to last long.

Sherlock stood and dropped his dressing gown in the process. He pulled his jacket on, slid the scarf around his neck, and looked down at the cat. Sherlock really wasn't keen on Pumpkin. He left, ignoring the cries of protest the open door caused from the feline.

Sherlock was sitting in the back of a cab when he started texting John. There was a case on.

_Lestrade's got something. Coming to get you. 5 minutes. SH_

_For God's sake, Sherlock. You can't just come get me from a date. Leave me with Mary for a few hours. JW_

_No time. 2 minutes. SH_

Sherlock's cab pulled up outside one of John's frequent haunts and he ran inside. John and Mary were sitting quite cosily together at a table and talking about something stupid, Sherlock was sure. Without preamble, Sherlock grabbed John's arm and hauled him up.

"Lestrade. Case. Now," Sherlock said as he pulled John along after him.

John dug his heels and started shouting, "Sherlock! Stop! I'm on a date!"

"Yes but that hardly matters. People are dying and we have to go help. Say good-bye to your date and we'll be on our way."

"Sherlock I can't just leave."

"No, by all means," Mary cut in, "Go. Leave me to run off with your boyfriend again." Mary tossed her napkin on the table and stood. She was shooting Sherlock death glares and walked out.

John made to go after her, but he was being pulled by Sherlock towards the back door.

"Come on, John. I have a cab waiting. We're going to the Yard."

The case was simple really. Sherlock suspected Mycroft had just told Lestrade to give it to Sherlock because he wanted Sherlock to have something other than pining after his husband. Ever since the two began properly sleeping together, they had been conspiring to make Sherlock's life as difficult as humanly possible.

He would never forgive Lestrade the texting fluke. The poor DI had meant for the text message to go to Mycroft. In his mobile's address book, however. Sherlock's and Mycroft's names were right next to one another. It wasn't his fault. An honest mistake. What wasn't an honest mistake was Sherlock bursting in with John in tow and loudly announcing to everyone the contents of the text. It read: _When I get home, I want you spread out on the bed open for me. I feel like a really excellent fuck tonight. GL_ Sherlock didn't need to tell the whole Yard that. He did anyway.

At the Yard, Sherlock had the latest case solved within twenty minutes (it was the son and the body was buried under the neighbour's gazebo). John was on pins and needles trying desperately to get a hold of Mary. She wasn't answering her phone.

Sherlock was getting more and more agitated. He hated watching John follow after that woman like he was a puppy.

"Sherlock. I've got to go see her. I can't believe I let you drag me out of a date. I'll see you back at home," John said and left the Yard in a cab bound for Mary's home.

John knocked on Mary's door and she opened it the second time around.

John waited for permission before he stepped in. Reluctantly, Mary led him to her sitting room.

"John, I can't keep doing this," Mary said. She looked small and weary and so horribly sad. "I love you. I think by now it is pretty obvious that I love you even if I've never said it before."

John started to interrupt, but Mary kept going.

"I've spent so much time and effort trying to keep you all to myself. I've been selfish and I'm sorry. You don't remember him, but there was a man who loved you long before I came along. I'd never admit it to him, but he deserves you more than I do. He needs you more than I do."

Mary moved forwards and kissed John. It was slow and loving and heart-breaking. The kind of kiss that means good-bye.

"What are you talking about?" John asked once they broke apart.

"I can't tell you. I've been fighting for you and I wanted more than anything to keep you to myself. Even though you don't remember, you're still his man through and through." Mary cradled John's head in the palm of her hand and drank her fill of his blue eyes.

He didn't understand what was happening or the reason why (though he could guess a bit at that one), but John knew what was coming next.

"I can't keep seeing you, John. I can't love the shadow of someone else's husband." Mary bit her bottom lip; something John knew meant she was close to tears.

Everything inside John was screaming. They had such a good relationship. This couldn't be it. Mary couldn't possibly just be ending it in such a simple short move. He could deny it as much as he wanted; it didn't change the fact that he was standing from Mary' couch. It didn't stop him from kissing her on the forehead and holding her hand just a little too tight. It didn't stop him from turning and leaving or her shutting the door behind him. It didn't stop him from hailing a cab and going home far earlier than he expected.

Sherlock was in his room when John got home.

John's call of "Sherlock!" was heard through all corners of the flat. He had stormed through the door in a very Sherlockian manner.

There was only silence so John shouted again. He knew full well that Sherlock was just hiding in his room. He wanted the full satisfaction of this right in their sitting room, though.

Eventually, Sherlock meandered out of his room with a lazy, "You called?"

"Damn right I called. What the hell was that? Interrupt my date and suddenly Mary is breaking up with me." John was pacing back and forth, furious and hurt all at once.

Sherlock approached him as one would approach a caged animal.

"I didn't make her terminate your relationship," Sherlock reasoned.

"Yeah, but she had to have some reason. She started spouting bullshit about my husband and such nonsense. I'm not even gay. I couldn't have a husband. She told me I didn't remember."

"Do you still not remember, John? Does it still elude you?" Sherlock pushed into John's personal space.

The blond's head was shaking and he hands were fisted.

"What do I not remember? Sherlock tell me what's wrong with my memory?" John was growing more and more frantic. _Why Mary and now Sherlock? What did they both know? _he wondered.

Sherlock grabbed both sides of John's head in his hands, "REMEMBER ME."

John kept shaking his hand and had his eyes shut up tight enough that he could see bursts of colour behind them.

Sherlock thought, _it can't be so easy. If it was so easy I would've done it ages ago. It can't be this. Why on earth would it be such an easy solution? But it's elegant. It's beautiful in every sense of the word. It isn't even a trigger that I considered. All the variables and this one didn't even come up._

He decided to try. Why not? It was an experiment.

Sherlock kissed John. Really kissed him like when he told John he loved him or when they got engaged or when they got married. He kissed him like a dying man would and begged the universe to let this work. Let this one thing work.

He stopped. Breathed. Looked at John.

The doctor's eyes were wide. He looked at Sherlock as though he had never seen him before in his life.

"I love you," John breathed, "Oh my god Sherlock I love you I love you I love you. And you're alive and here and I love you."

John pressed himself against Sherlock, grabbing handfuls of the detective's arse. He kissed Sherlock back and it was soon more of a battle of tongues than a real kiss.

John gripped Sherlock's lapels and pulled him bodily backwards until they were both stumbling into Sherlock's room.

And endless stream of _I love you_'s came from John in between each kiss. John began pushing buttons out of button holes just as Sherlock was sliding his hands under John's jumper and onto the skin of his abdomen.

Sherlock shirt hit the floor and John's jumper soon followed. It didn't take long for all of their clothes to be discarded and both of them tangled in the other on Sherlock's bed. Their bed once again.

John pressed Sherlock into the mattress and kissed a hot trail down the centre of his chest. He sucked and nipped at the left nipple until it was hard and did much the same to the right. Dragging his fingertips down to Sherlock's pelvis elicited a shudder, so John twice over repeated the motion. He licked at the dip in Sherlock's clavicles and lovingly sucked a pink spot right beneath where a shirt collar would rest.

Sherlock's hands were all over John's back. Feeling the muscles flex with each movement and skimming from the bullet's exit wound down to the curve of John's arse. Goosebumps bubbled up like footprints behind Sherlock's fingertips.

In a move Sherlock learned from John, he hooked a leg and flipped them over. Breath was momentarily pushed from John's lungs and he remembered craving that power shift. He delighted in remembering. The elation didn't last long though. No sooner had Sherlock settled their new positions, than shimmy down to lick and tease at John's inner thigh.

Sherlock slowly spread John's legs apart and brushed his nose along the crease of John's thigh. He slowly lapped at the head of John's cock before sealing his mouth just to the crown and letting saliva pool in his mouth. John dug his fingers in Sherlock's hair, gently pulling at the inky curls. Sherlock turned his head to meet John's eyes as he tongued a wet trail along John's shaft. He wore a devilish grin right before taking John in his mouth again.

Sherlock slowly worked his mouth around John, taking him a little deeper with each bob of his head. Finally, Sherlock was able to take John's cock in to the base.

"Christ! Sherlock," John said as Sherlock hummed softly around his cock, "Stop or I'll come."

Sherlock released him with a soft pop and tongued at John's balls. His hands skimmed John's legs and teased just over his skin. John's hand tightened in Sherlock's hair, as thought to pull him up by force. Instead of moving, Sherlock switched focus.

He lightly kissed John's hole and earned a strangled gasp for his trouble. Sliding his tongue along John's crease, Sherlock patiently worked to relax the muscle. He licked the rim and ignored the pulling on his hair. John was subtly grinding his hips while Sherlock tongue-fucked him.

"Sherlock, I wasn't joking. You need to _ah!_ stop," John nearly whinged.

Sherlock pulled away from John's skin. He leaned wholly over John's torso to reach into the nightstand's top drawer. He came up empty.

Frowning, Sherlock tuned an accusatory look on John. "Where's the lube?"

"Moved it. Bottom drawer. Needed to put my new meds in the top drawer," John replied.

_New meds?_ Sherlock stored that information away to talk about later. He dug out the lube and set it on the bed, easily within reach.

"John I haven't," Sherlock began, "I mean I haven't been with anyone. I'm still clean. Just you."

He could tell from the way that John was searching his face that the doctor had reservations. It hurt to think that John would doubt him on this. Seemingly satisfied and willing to trust Sherlock, John nodded slightly.

"Neither have I. I didn't even want to. Not after you," John tilted his head back expecting a kiss. When he didn't get one, he cracked an eye open.

Sherlock had the most remarkable look on his face. Somewhere between disbelief and total elation.

"Not at all?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

"Not at all."

Sherlock attacked John's mouth, as if trying to deduce the truth of his words from the curve of his tongue. He flipped the cap on the lubricant and prepared his fingers.

Sherlock eased one in and swallowed John's gasp. God, he was so damn tight. And hot. And everything. It wasn't until his second finger that Sherlock expertly played across John's prostate. By the third John was gasping for air and every third exhale was a moan. John's blunt nails pulled tracks across Sherlock's pale back. He welcomed the markings, had missed them.

"Tell me, John," Sherlock breathed into blond strands, "Tell me you still love me."

"I do. Of course I still love you," John promised. A _mphf_ was drawn from his throat. Followed by a rather loud, "Fuck me. God Sherlock _please _fuck me."

Sherlock spread lube along his cock and slowly pushed the head past John's still tight ring of muscle. He stopped, wanted John to adjust after such a long time without. There was no way Sherlock was going to hurt him.

John had other things in mind. "Fucking move, Sherlock," John insisted, "I can take it. I swear. Just fuck me."

Taking him at his word, Sherlock pushed in until he bottomed out. Breathing heavily, he gripped the headboard and began properly fucking John. Underneath Sherlock, John's face was twisted in pleasure and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. John wanted to see Sherlock come, he wanted to watch as well as feel.

Sherlock pulled his right hand from the headboard and fisted John's cock. Pumping in concert with his thrusts, each push and pull giving them both sensation after sensation.

"I love you," Sherlock swore like a waste of last words, "I love you so much, John. Always love you. Come for me. You're so beautiful."

"Yes, Yes Sherlock. Come in me. I'm close. I want this. Want you."

Without warning John gripped one hand at the base of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down for a kiss. John's cry of "Sherlock" at his climax was muffled by their lips. Warmth spread across Sherlock's hand and he felt John's come slick the way of Sherlock's final pulls.

Sherlock kept pounding into John, snapping his hips with every thrust. White light burst behind his eyes as he came. He couldn't be sure, but Sherlock thought he called John's name as he lost himself to the push of his orgasm.

John was still pliant and relaxed so Sherlock took it upon himself to clean them both up. He went to sleep next to John and tried not to concentrate too much on the fact that John kept well to his side of the bed.

The next morning, all hell broke loose.

Sherlock rose earlier than John, typical because he required less sleep. In a last ditch effort to make amends, he made breakfast. Cooking was simple chemistry, fully within Sherlock's field of expertise.

He piled it on a plate and went into their room. Setting the food on the nightstand, Sherlock took a seat on the edge of the bed. Just watching John sleep, revelling in the fact that he was able to do so once again.

The peace didn't last long, though.

John woke up. Immediately he cried out and gripped his head in his hands.

Sherlock crouched on the bed next to him and quickly learned to never get close to an occasionally volatile soldier while his memories are flooding back. Sherlock found himself sprawled on the floor with a bloody nose.

John was still perched up in the bed clutching his head and making painful noises only ever previously emitted mid-nightmare. Sherlock ignored the blood flowing freely from his nose and tried to go to John again. He didn't get as close the second time.

The headache went on for a full twenty minutes. After which John was left sweaty and panting. He turned to Sherlock with an expression of hurt and hate.

"Fuck you," John spat.

Sherlock moved away, struck by the venom in John's words.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Sherlock? I remember! I remember everything. You, me, Lacuna, Mary. Oh my god Mary." John looked panicked. He scrambled out of bed only to collapse on the floor. Sherlock jumped up to help John, but was violently shoved away. John gripped his head as another wave of pain and nausea crashed over him.

"I remember," John panted, "you dying. You left me and it hurt. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THAT KILLED ME."

Sherlock bowed his head and pleaded with the floorboards, "I'm so sorry. I-He was going to kill you. All of you. I had no choice. I wanted to tell you so badly, but there was work that needed to be done."

Sherlock raised his head to meet John's eyes and knew that they had never harboured so much emotion at one time. The fight between John's love for Sherlock and his pain at what Sherlock did was visible, exacerbated by the still coming onslaught of memories.

"Oh yes. The work. Of course it was the work. Still married to your work, then? What happened to me? You were married to me." John held up his left hand as though brandishing a weapon. His empty finger was all Sherlock could focus on.

Standing, Sherlock walked out of the room. He returned a moment later with a small parcel fisted in his hand. John still rested on the floor. He hadn't the energy to properly get up. The doctor half of John knew that trying to get up would bring on a wave of vertigo and he could potentially faint.

Opening his hand, Sherlock deposited John's wedding band in the doctor's open palm. John rolled his fingers over it, re-familiarizing himself with the golden ring.

"You kept it," he said absently.

"Of course I kept it. It's my husband's wedding band. I'd never get rid of it." Sherlock stared at John's face, gauging his emotions by the expressions that flitted across his features.

"I can't forgive you," John said. He was much calmer now. Sherlock preferred the yelling over this stoic stranger.

"Can I explain? I'll tell you-"

"No. I don't want to hear your explanations. It killed me to watch you die, Sherlock. It was like everything good that ever happened to me didn't matter because you weren't there anymore. I nearly followed you off that rooftop. Did you know that? I became so desperate."

Sherlock was horrified by the thought of John dying. Of John taking his own life. Was this the hell that John had to live though?

"When I first met you, I was so alone. The whole of London and I didn't know a soul. I limped around and no one paid any attention to me. And then you came along and you saved me. You gave me so much. And I loved you for it. Would have given you anything. Hell, I did give you everything."

John brought his legs to his chest and rested against the side of the bed. He ignored the chill of the floor. He closed his eyes as more memories trickled into his consciousness.

Sherlock stayed silent. What was there to say? _I'm sorry_ seemed so inadequate and over-used.

"I erased you because you erased me," John said. It was such a simple truth.

John tried to not think about his past with Sherlock just yet. It was as though his mind was reaching through fog or trying to pin a name to a face only it caused pain to shoot through his head every time he pushed a little too hard.

"I still love you. I don't think I'll ever stop loving you. But I can't forgive you. Not yet at least."

After a few more minutes of silence, John asked Sherlock to be alone. The detective stood on shaky legs and left without a sound. He pressed his hand against the door for a brief second before grabbing his coat and leaving the flat. Sherlock wiped the blood from his nose on a napkin he found stuffed in his pocket. He would give John time. As much time as he needed. He would give John anything.

It took three hours for John's headaches to dissipate. He still felt a pull if he reached for information, but the lightning pain was finally gone.

He stood and pulled on clothing, not bothering with matching or anything. He had important business to take care of.

On the cab ride to Mary's, John mentally prepped a speech. He had it all laid out. Important things to mention, things to apologise for, explanations. John didn't think it would do any good, but he owed her something.

He knocked on her front door and stood waiting, regretting the fact that he didn't stop for flowers.

Mary opened the door, saw John, and promptly shut it again.

"Mary?" John called, "Please let me in."

"Go home, John."

"Can I talk to you? I just want to clear the air. Please open the door."

"I have nothing to say to you. Our relationship is over. Go home."

"I'm going to sit here until you let me in."

"Then sit. See if I care."

John sat. After the first hour, he knew she was just trying to punish him. After the second hour, he was about ready to give it up and go home like she said. But John Watson was a man of his word. He said he would sit until she let him in, so he sat. Halfway through the third hour, Mary opened the door.

"Get in here you daft git." There was no humour in her voice, but at least John had made it past the threshold.

Mary didn't offer tea and John didn't expect any. They sat in stony quiet; she on the sofa and he in the armchair.

"Go on. Say your piece and leave," Mary prompted.

John cleared his throat. He had a plan. A shite one.

"I remember."

Mary wasn't expecting that. She thought John had come over to try and win her back. To tell her of course he and Sherlock weren't together and that he was sorry for continuously putting Sherlock first. She wanted John to apologise for making her feel small and being a better boyfriend to Sherlock than her. That isn't what she got.

"What do you mean you remember?" Mary asked. She already knew the answer. Mary wanted John to say it.

"I remember everything. I remember cases with Sherlock. Falling in love with him. Getting married. I remember Moriarty and watching Sherlock fall. I remember the years afterwards and the months leading up to Lacuna. It's weird. I remember everything after that too. I remember not remembering."

"You remember me? All that we did?"

"Yeah. I still have that." John folded his hands in his lap. Mary was grateful he had the decency to look ashamed, but she wasn't sure what for. _Did he regret their relationship because he was married to a man he couldn't remember, or did he regret remembering. _

"Did I ever have a chance with you, John? Even without your memory, you were still his. Sherlock just miraculously walked back into London and suddenly you were back there, to the cases and the running off."

"I could've loved you." John knew it was unfair to tell her that. Everything about his relationship with Mary was unfair. And it was John's fault. "In another time, another place, another era when all of this was different and easier. I could've loved you and we could've been happy."

Mary didn't have a response. _He could've loved me. _

John kept his hands clenched tight as he said his next bit. Mary saw the ring back on his finger and she knew that he was there to say good-bye.

"I love him. I think I loved him even when I didn't know him. I offered for him to live with me and I barely knew him. I didn't know that room was his, but it still worked. Even though I had never seen his face before in my life, I knew I loved him. I just couldn't fully acknowledge it. I don't know what all this has done to you. I knew you and Sherlock didn't get along, but I never really understood why. I can't have two parts of my life clash like that."

John looked up at Mary and pretended not to notice her crying.

"I wanted to thank you for taking care of me," John said, "But I can't see you anymore. Sherlock and I need to figure out where to go from here. I'm technically a married man. I don't want that to lessen our relationship, though. I genuinely cared for you."

"But you couldn't kiss me," Mary whispered.

"What was that?" John asked.

"You couldn't kiss me," she said louder, "You hardly ever kissed me. Even when you did it was…wrong somehow. I don't know how to describe it. It was like you didn't mean it."

John didn't try to defend that. It was true. He had kissed Mary out of obligation rather than wanting to. He had never brought it up, made excuses to himself about PTSD.

"I'm going to miss you," John confessed.

"Don't give me that shite."

"I will, believe me or not."

"You have him. You're the winner out of this. I don't hate you for it, but god damn do I envy you. Go home, John. There's nothing left for you here."

So John went home.

Mary closed the door behind him and sat back on her sofa. She wouldn't ever tell people, but she cried. John was the kind of man worth crying over.


	13. Chapter 13

Over the next week, John and Sherlock avoided one another like repelling magnets. If John walked into a room that Sherlock was in, Sherlock would cast a sidelong look and leave. They didn't mean it to be a hostile environment, but the flat was quickly becoming a battleground.

Sherlock would wake up early to use the bathroom before John. He would situate himself on the sofa and read or play the violin. John would wake up, use the bathroom and leave for work. At night, John would make dinner and eat it. Sherlock would pretend that he wasn't bothered by the fact that John cooked for one. John would watch telly or read a book in the sitting room. Sherlock would stay in the kitchen and work on an experiment.

They had no cases to work on, a coincidence that Sherlock largely attributed to Mycroft and Lestrade's meddling.

Sherlock and John still slept in the same bed, though. It was that bit that Sherlock found so distressing. They would go to sleep relatively at the same time. John kept to his side of the bed. He didn't kiss Sherlock goodnight, they didn't shag, and they hadn't yet talked about the one shag after John's memory was triggered.

It was like the flat was situated on eggshells and one wrong move could spell disaster. Sherlock hated it. Hated being on guard around John. One of the best things about John was that Sherlock never needed to bother with what he said. Social curtsies didn't apply between the two of them, especially not in their own home.

The first Sunday morning after John reclaimed his memory, he woke up early. He was at a loss for what to do. Before he went to Lacuna, Sundays were Sherlock's days. After Lacuna, Sundays were just another day. They were often filled with breakfast with Mary just because John was still in the habit of having an active morning.

This time, John woke up with no Mary to meet for breakfast and Sherlock lying beside him.

Sherlock could tell by John's breathing pattern that he had woken up.

"Today is our day," Sherlock said.

"No. Today is my day with a headstone."

"Do you think we could use it to talk in real life rather than you to a headstone? I can stay silent if that would make it easier."

"I don't think that is a good idea Sherlock. Go back to sleep."

"Can you at least try? You don't have to look at me. Just talk like you would during those visits. I'll stay silent."

John took a deep breath.

"Hello again, Sherlock," John greeted the bedroom ceiling, "It's been another week. I spent most of it at surgery. There wasn't any ground-breaking lifesaving done this week, but it wasn't entirely dull. I did have a lot of paperwork to do. I know you know this, but you came back to me this week. I won't be visiting a headstone anymore. That kind of scares me. In a good way, I think.

I know I tell you about the important things that happened each week, but you're the most important thing in my life. I'm so happy you're back. I don't know what to do now, though. I'm still angry that you left me. I'll sit up in the middle of the night and listen to you breathe just to be certain that you're not going to disappear on me again.

I keep thinking I owe the universe something. I made so many promises of things I'd do if you came back to me, and I haven't followed through on any of them. I haven't told you I love you every day. I haven't made you tea even if you're in a bad mood. I haven't even punched your brother. I remember that time you asked me to punch Mycroft for you. I wasn't sure if you were joking, but I told the universe that I'd do it if you came back to me. I guess I get to punch Mycroft now."

Sherlock smiled at that, but still remained silent. He was supposed to be a headstone, act as an ear to listen only. He wasn't going to spoil this by commenting.

"I still love you. I tell you every week and it is still true. I don't think they'll ever be a day that I don't love you. It's still really hard. Even with you back, loving you is hard. I think you're worth it. And you love me. You think I'm worth it. That's all we need, really. I hope that's all we need."

Sherlock didn't move. He wanted to shift closer to John, but was afraid of the repercussions that interruption would bring. Instead, Sherlock slowly turned his head to look at John. To his surprise, John was on his side watching him.

"Tell me you love me," John whispered.

"I love you."

That's what they both needed. John scooted closer to Sherlock and wrapped one arm around his torso. They kissed easy Sunday morning kisses. No rush, no fuss.

They broke apart and Sherlock knew the conversation they had both been putting off was coming.

John looked at him and was at a total loss for words.

"Why have you avoided me?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm still working on getting used to you being here. I'm trying to get used to remembering not knowing you."

"Does it still hurt?"

"That depends on what you're asking."

"Your memory. Does it still hurt you?"

"No. It's not a pain anymore. It's just like trying to listen to someone talk while you're both underwater. There are things that I know happened and that I can remember snatches of, but not all of it."

"Like what."

"Like that day we went to the park. You wanted to do something, but I wouldn't let you. We left and you were unhappy the rest of the day. I can't remember what it was, though."

"Ducks."

"Pardon?"

"I wanted to feed the ducks. I was trying to study their competitiveness when presented with food."

"We can feed the ducks today if you'd like."

Sherlock smiled at John and nodded. "I'd love to feed the ducks."

"Are we still married?" John asked.

"Do you not want to be married to me?"

"No, I do. I just wasn't sure."

"I will always want to be with you. Mycroft can sort the rest out for us."

They spent the rest of the morning talking and kissing until Sherlock pulled John out of bed so he could make good on his promise to feed the ducks. On their way out, John bend down and scooped up Pumpkin. John had the cabbie first go to Molly's.

She promised to take good care of Pumpkin and seemed quite certain that Toby wouldn't mind another cat in the house. John thanked her and was grateful he could stop taking the stupid allergy medication. He was starting to think Harry gave him a cat specifically because she knew he was allergic.

They went to the park, Sherlock with a loaf of bread in hand. They fed the ducks and it was easy. Afterwards, Sherlock took John to Angelo's.

He introduced John with, "You remember my husband, John."

Angelo made their dinner personally. John was sure he was grinning from ear to ear the entire time. Their conversation over dinner was light. They laughed. John remembered what it felt like to fall in love with a mad man. He thumbed at his ring, an idiosyncrasy that didn't escape Sherlock's notice. He reached across the table to take John's hand, trapping his thumb against the band.

He didn't say anything. Just smiled and resumed picking at his food while John ate.

Neither of them was willing to fully discuss everything yet, but there would be a time. They both knew that it was going to work itself out.

"Long night?" Greg asked. He could tell something stressful had happened by the look on Mycroft's face.

"Japan is being difficult again. Nothing I can't handle," Mycroft asserted. He left his things with Anthea and went to join Greg in the kitchen.

"You're only an hour late this time, I consider that an improvement," Greg pushed a smile forwards, it wouldn't do to be angry.

Greg had been spending more time at Mycroft's home than his own. He was only back at his smaller flat to pick up clothes or when his girls were with him. He hadn't expected his relationship with Mycroft to take off like it did, but he wasn't going to complain. They were good together.

Mycroft opened the glass cabinet and withdrew a wine glass that sported a rather impressive bowl. Greg handed him the bottle of vintage red that was sitting on the counter waiting for them both that night.

"I'm sorry that I'm once again tardy for our date, Gregory," Mycroft said. He sipped his wine and made a pleased hum as it ran down his throat.

"Nah, it's not a big deal. I knew you'd come eventually," Greg brushed it off. It bothered him sometimes that Mycroft was always late getting home, but Greg knew that if he really needed him, Mycroft would be there in a heartbeat.

"I wanted to ask you something tonight. I hope it's not too late in the night. You can feel free to answer me tomorrow morning, should you need the time."

"Yeah, alright. Shoot."

"Would you consider moving in with me?" Mycroft was still standing straight, looking ridiculously imposing with his suit and his wine. At the same time, Greg had never seen him quite so nervous.

He wanted to shout "Yes, a thousand times yes," but there were things holding his quick acceptance back.

"I would love to, Myc," Greg said and Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the nickname, "But what about my girls?"

Mycroft knew not to jump at Gregory's acceptance too quickly. A man of responsibility, of course his daughters would be heavy in his decision. They might even make his decision.

"If you'd like, you can live here and still retain your currently living arrangement until a time you see more suitable."

"That'd be like lying to them. I can't just kip over there whenever I have them. If I was going to live here, they would too." Greg looked around. "Do you think this place is really child-ready? It would be quite hard to keep a really determined ten year old out of your study. And Maddie would just hide in the library."

"I assure you, precautions have already been made in the event of your daughters spending time here. You've seen the guest rooms. They would have plenty of their own space."

"I'm not worried about them having space. I'm more concerned with us having space. They'd come in and just take everything over. Hell, Mycroft, I haven't even told them about you yet and you're asking me to move in?"

That was no surprise; Mycroft knew that Greg was very careful to separate his life with his girls from his life without. He didn't want police business interfering with them. Sherlock had never even met the pair before. Not that he cared to, but still. It said a lot about the compartmentalisation of Greg's life.

"I find it may be prudent to tell them before moving in or in fact asking them if they would like to relocate to my home during their time with you."

"I'll have to think about it. I get a weekend with them in two days, so maybe we'll cross that bridge then."

Greg watched as Mycroft stoically sipped his wine. They both knew it was the right course of action, waiting and seeing what Sarah and Maddie thought.

Sarah and Maddie were dropped off, their mother not even bothering to come up and say hello. Greg wasn't really expecting her to.

"Hello girls," Greg said.

Sarah was hauling her little overnight bag into the girls' shared room and Maddie had unceremoniously tossed hers onto the floor. Greg couldn't afford much, a two bedroom flat still in London was the best he could do.

Greg was going to take them out to dinner and tell them about Mycroft. If it went well, the next day they were going to meet Mycroft and see how it went from there.

"Girls, have you had any breakfast yet? I know it is still pretty early."

"I want eggs!" Sarah said excitedly, poking her head around the corner of the room.

"I'll eat eggs if you're making them," Maddie said. She already had the telly on and was flicking through the channels. Greg prayed that she wasn't trying to find some stupid reality show. He was satisfied when she settled on a rerun of _Total Wipeout_.

The day went by fairly quickly. Greg made the girls breakfast and sat around watching telly with them. He ran Maddie to a party at noon and picked her up from said party at six. At seven he took them to dinner.

As per Sherlock's frequent suggestions, Greg walked his family into Angelo's and took a table. He had never been there before, but trusted Sherlock and John's opinion of places to eat out over his own.

After they had ordered and their menus cleared away, Greg folded his arms on the table. Maddie rolled her eyes.

"What?" Greg asked.

"You're telling us something important. You always do that with your arms when it is something important," Maddie stated matter-of-factly.

Greg couldn't help but smile. He appreciated observation.

"Yes, well, you're right. This is important." He cleared his throat. "I'm in a relationship with someone."

Sarah immediately looked around as if this elusive someone was about to walk in the door. Maddie just looked surly.

"It's a man," Greg continued.

"Daddy, are you gay?" Sarah asked.

"I like girls and boys," Greg said. He hoped that would be enough for her. He didn't really want to have an in-depth conversation about his sexuality with his ten year old.

Sarah seemed satisfied.

"What do you think about me seeing other people? I know it's been a while since your mom and I split up."

"I don't care," Maddie said. Greg could tell she did, but he didn't want to push the issue.

"I want to meet him. What's his name?" Sarah asked.

"His name is Mycroft. He works for the government. He's very nice."

"Can I meet him?" Sarah asked, whipping her head around again as though Mycroft could just appear out of thin air.

"You can meet him tomorrow if that's what you want."

Sarah was agreeable to this, Maddie not so much. Greg hoped that Mycroft could win them over.

The next day they sat and ate ice cream in Regent's Park. Greg looked around every few seconds for Mycroft. He was coming directly from a meeting with the soon-to-be former leaders of Japan. Greg wondered how it must feel to be able to fire the leader of a nation.

Mycroft came into view, all put together and perfect. Anthea followed him carrying two large shopping bags.

"Terribly sorry I'm late," Mycroft apologised. He looked as though he meant to lean in and kiss Greg, but stopped himself. They could've gotten away with it. Sarah and Maddie's eyes were glued to the packages.

"Is that for me?" Sarah asked.

"Yes, the one on the right is for you. The left is for your sister."

Anthea set the packages down. Greg shot Mycroft a warning look as the girls opened each bag.

"You can't try and buy my kids, Mycroft," Greg murmured for only Mycroft to hear.

"I would never even dare. These are simply gifts to celebrate a first meeting."

The perfect gifts. Sarah was eagerly trying to rip open her new toys while Maddie was mentally listing all the books she could buy with a £150 gift card. She hadn't even gotten to the box of clothing. All perfectly her size, obviously.

Greg gave Mycroft a what-the-hell-is-all-this kind of look. To which Mycroft shrugged innocently.

"Have you been watching my kids on CCTV?" Greg demanded.

"Me? Not at all."

"Have you had people watch my kids on CCTV?"

"Perhaps."

Mycroft was expecting to be yelled at, or at least the promise of being yelled at later. He wasn't expecting Greg to smile and thank him for his efforts.

"Really, that's sweet. Creepy and well over some sort of boundary, but still a nice gesture." Greg was smiling and watching as both girls thanked Mycroft. Sarah hugged him around the middle. After a second of recovery, Mycroft returned the gesture.

"I can't make any promises now, but it looks as though I'll be moving in with you after all."

That night, Sarah and Maddie went back to their mother. Greg was sad to see them go, as he always was, but still quite pleased at how the weekend had turned out. He hopped in a cab to Mycroft's.

Anthea opened the door on the third knock.

"I'm sorry, Detective Inspector, Mr Holmes is currently occupied. Would you like to wait in the sitting room?" she said all polite smiles and leaving no room for Greg to protest.

After a half hour, Mycroft wandered in. The sight of Greg lounging on his sofa with a bottle of lager was always a pleasant sight. Made even more so when Greg happened to be wearing nothing.

Greg took a sip and gave a cheeky wink in Mycroft's direction.

"I missed you," Greg pouted.

"I just saw you this afternoon. Not four hours ago," Mycroft chided in return, but his heart wasn't in it.

Greg set the bottle aside and stood, walking to where Mycroft was rooted in place. His kiss tasted like lager and felt like a smile.

"Doesn't mean I can't miss you."

They made their way up to Mycroft's bedroom, very soon to be their collective bedroom.

Greg slowly, methodically divested every bit of clothing from Mycroft's body. He kissed skin that undone buttons revealed and mouthed teasingly at Mycroft's cock through silk pants.

_Really. Silk pants. Only Mycroft would wear silk pants._ Greg thought happily.

Greg moved up Mycroft's body to press their lips together.

"I'm going to fuck you," Greg promised.

Mycroft's hips stuttered up in response and Greg could feel the other man's growing interest. He prepared Mycroft slowly, wanting it to last.

"Fuck, you're perfect," Greg groaned a he finally sank into Mycroft's body. He held Mycroft's leg over his shoulder and fucked into him with languid strokes, guaranteed to drive them both mad.

"Gregory, faster. God, fuck me faster," Mycroft begged.

"I don't see God doing any of the fucking," Greg teased, keeping his thrusts even. He only brushed Mycroft's prostate every fourth or fifth time, taking pleasure in the way the redhead writhed beneath him.

"I will tear down the sky if you don't fucking go faster."

Greg had no doubt that tearing down the sky was within Mycroft's capabilities. To avoid national disaster, Greg sped up. He snapped his hips and gripped Mycroft's sides as he fucked him.

"Yes, like that. _Oh fuck_, just there," Mycroft moaned.

Greg reached a hand down to fist Mycroft's cock. Three strokes in and Mycroft was calling out, coming across his chest and Greg's hand. Greg kept moving, pushing Mycroft through his orgasm while chasing his own.

Greg came inside Mycroft with a gasp and rode it out. He kissed Mycroft and held onto him.

After they had both relaxed and cleaned up, Greg pressed up against Mycroft's back, spooning him and keeping him in place. It was slightly awkward because Greg was a bit shorter, but Mycroft never complained.

"I love you," Greg whispered, "I don't tell you near enough."

"I love you too." Mycroft thought the words felt odd coming from his mouth. He never told anyone he loved them. He did love, was capable of it, contrary to what some might think. But he rarely ever verbalized it.

Greg knew Mycroft was not one for openly declaring feelings. His confession of love felt all the more important because of it. It reminded him that Mycroft was careful and always sure to protect himself. Greg took that responsibility seriously. He never wanted to hurt Mycroft or betray the immense amount of trust that the man placed in him.

They fell asleep like that, in the soon-to-be their bed. Greg would tell Mycroft the next day that he was moving in.


	14. Chapter 14 - Epilogue

Sherlock was in a stormy mood. John hated it when Sherlock got himself in stormy moods.

"What is it this time?" John asked. He was making tea for himself and the hurricane currently tearing apart his siting room.

"Lestrade is moving in with my brother."

"Good for them."

John was glad he could at least remember Mycroft without having to reach for it. The past few weeks had seen his memory improve. Even his relationship with Sherlock was getting somewhat back to where they use to be.

"No! Not good for them," Sherlock exclaimed, "Do you have any idea how much more obnoxious this is going to make Mycroft? Average people are more likely to have more positive attitudes when having regular sexual intercourse. Mycroft just preens like a fat cat and wiggles his nose into my business more than usual."

"You can tell if your brother is being shagged just by how much he shows interest in your life?" John asked surprised and not a just little disturbed.

"Of course I can. It's intolerable. Incredibly high on the list of things that are entirely unbearable about him."

"You have a list?"

"Of course I have a list. Keep up, John!"

John set the tea in front of Sherlock and took his own seat.

"Won't that make Lestrade more likely to give you cases?" John inquired. It seemed like a logical train of thought to him.

"No. If anything Mycroft will now be even more able to dictate the cases that Lestrade gives me. Mycroft just wants me to be running all over the world solving his stupid little domestics. Lestrade's cases are far better than anything Mycroft could give me."

"I don't know. That one last week with the stolen crown was pretty good. The queen offered you a knighthood again."

"As if I wanted a knighthood that Mycroft secures."

"I'm just saying, it would be nice."

"Hmph!" Sherlock said and rolled over on the sofa. John got a feeling that the second cuppa was going to go cold.

"Well I'm going to go out. I'm meeting Mike at the pub. Be back later." John stood and grabbed a jacket. He pulled it around himself and pushed through the front door.

Immediately, Sherlock was up and had his phone in hand. He sent out three texts. One to Angelo, one to the florist down the street, and one to a Baker Street Irregular.

_I'll need a dinner delivered tonight. Our usual. I'll pay delivery fee. SH_

_Flowers. Three dozen white roses. They can't be red. If I get any red roses, I'll gladly inform your boyfriend about your other boyfriend. SH_

_Keep everyone away from my flat. __200. SH_

Once that was taken care of, Sherlock went to their room. He had kept a box hidden in his side of the closet. It was buried under a disastrous mass of things. John had noticed the pile and asked Sherlock on multiple occasions to clean it up. Thankfully, he had never actually gone through the mountain himself.

Sherlock pulled the box out and examined the contents; a white table cloth, matching napkins, some candles, and some candle holders. The box also contained brand new dishware and silverware. The fine white china had never been experimented on and the forks and knives never used to pick up a dead specimen.

He laid the white table cloth across the table and arranged everything the way Mrs. Hudson had told him to. Sherlock then set to cleaning up. Cleaning was one of his least favourite activities, but he knew John would prefer to have their anniversary dinner in a clean flat than a disastrous one.

Given John's body language and attitude though the day, Sherlock knew he had forgotten. He wasn't upset, though. In fact he was relying on John continuing to not remember up until he walked through the door. He made a mental note to tell Molly to thank Mike for keeping John out of the flat for a while.

The florist arrived with another girl. They had Sherlock's three dozen roses in the truck. He quickly paid and shooed them off. Not before making sure that yes, all of the roses were white. Sherlock put a rose with each of their place settings and the others he divided into three vases around the flat.

Then, just to be certain, he ran downstairs and got Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had never been good at such relationship things and wanted the flat to look the way someone like John would expect it to look on an anniversary.

"Oh it looked gorgeous, Sherlock! You really did well," Mrs. Hudson said. She looked at the table and the roses and the cleanliness of the flat. "John is such a lucky man. You're so good to him."

Sherlock didn't bother correcting her. He really wasn't good to John. Good husbands didn't fake their own deaths. Nevertheless, he appreciated her sentiment and promptly ushered her out of the flat to a waiting cab. Handing her tickets for the opera on the way.

Sherlock's internal clock told him that he had about twenty minutes before Angelo arrived with food and twenty two minutes until Mike brought John home, hopefully not sloshed. Sherlock had carefully informed both Mike and the Red Lion's bartender what would happen to them if John returned to him too drunk to appreciate the dinner. Both had looked equally horrified and assured Sherlock that John would be limited to a grand total of two, no more.

Exactly on time, Angelo arrived with heaping containers of take-away food. Sherlock piled both plates with food, but stopped when Angelo began making disgruntled noises and murmuring about presentation under his breath.

"Fine! You do it then!" Sherlock shouted and went to look out the window.

Angelo let Sherlock go, glad that he had stopped making a disaster of their dinners. He laid everything out and rested a sprig of parsley on each plate. Satisfied, Angelo showed himself out. Sherlock was still standing at the window. He hadn't realized Angelo left until he saw the man's large frame walking down the street away from where John was walking up to the flat.

He heard John push open the door.

"Sherlock?" John called up the stairs, "I'm home!"

_Good_, Sherlock thought, _John wasn't drunk._

John walked into the flat and was greeted by a dozen white roses sitting on their coffee table.

"What are these then?" he asked.

"Happy anniversary, John."

Immediately John's face fell. "It's…I forgot our anniversary," he said softly.

"It's not a problem. I remembered, you see," Sherlock assured.

"That's not the point, Sherlock. I forgot. I thought I was done forgetting these things."

John looked so crest fallen that Sherlock was beginning to second guess making a big deal out of their first anniversary since his return.

"It's ok. I don't mind that you forgot. I remembered so it doesn't matter that you didn't."

That did nothing for the situation.

"No, Sherlock. I need to remember these things. I didn't get you a gift or anything. I didn't even make you breakfast in bed. I remember our past anniversaries. I remember making you a full English breakfast and that time I had to fight you to eat it. Do you remember?"

"Of course I remember. I'd never delete that."

"I remember doing it, but nothing about the date. Why didn't I remember?"

John was growing more and more frustrated. Sherlock stepped inside his personal space and wrapped his arms around John. He pressed a kiss to the shorter man's forehead and held him as though they could become one person.

"I love you," Sherlock said. "I love you with your memory, and I love you with little holes in it."

John untangled himself and stepped back. He was about to argue, but the set table and dinner came into his peripheral.

"You made dinner?" John said aghast.

"Well, sort of. Made. Ordered. They're close enough," Sherlock replied, "I hope you're hungry."

"Starved."

Before John could get upset about forgetting again, Sherlock took his hand and pulled him to their kitchen table, unrecognizable under the nice newness of everything. He poured them each a glass of wine and set the bottle aside.

John sat and examined the silverware while Sherlock grabbed a lighter for the candles.

"These are new. The plates too are new," John observed.

"Yes. I wanted ones that I had not experimented on. I know that you don't like eating off of plates that once held questionable substances."

John smiled, "That was very thoughtful of you. Thank you, Sherlock."

Even before he picked up his fork to taste it, John knew Angelo made their dinner.

"I've got to get this recipe off of Angelo some time. It's fantastic," John said in between bites.

"He'd never give it to you. Free food is one thing; giving away the recipe is another matter entirely. I doubt he'd even give it to me if I asked."

"Ah well, there is certainly a reason we go there so often."

They ate in silence until at least John's plate was cleared. In comparison to how much Sherlock generally ate, he over-did himself. In comparison to how much the average male of his size ate, it was an appetizer.

John stood to clear the plates away, but Sherlock beat him to it. John sat and sipped his wine as he drank in the rare sight of Sherlock tidying things.

"I did notice that you cleaned the flat, by the way. It looks impressive," John commented lightly. He knew that Sherlock hated cleaning.

"I'm glad you like it."

Sherlock came over and pulled John from his seat to the sofa. They both flopped down without spilling a drop of wine. It was delicious and John was afraid to know the price tag.

John found his lap filled with Sherlock's angles and impossibly long limbs. His mouth was taken and Sherlock tasted of wine and marinara sauce. He carefully set his glass on the table and wrapped his arms around his husband.

John could feel a current of impatience running through Sherlock's movements.

He stopped kissing Sherlock to ask, "Bed?"

Sherlock nodded and they resumed kissing, stood, and stumbled their way into the bedroom.

Sherlock kissed and ran his fingers barely up the edge of John's jumper. He cupped John's hardening cock through his pants and trousers and took pleasure in knowing he caused the moan that escaped John's lips.

John's fingers pulled at each of Sherlock's buttons and soon pushed his shirt and jacket off his shoulders in one fell swoop. His t-shirt and jumper were carelessly tossed to the side as Sherlock leaned down to take one nipple in his mouth. John's nipples were incredibly sensitive.

As Sherlock sucked, he slid on hand past the band of John's pants to wrap long fingers around his cock. He laid teasing touches up and down the shaft and across John's balls.

John fought with Sherlock's belt before pushing his trousers and pants down. Begrudgingly, Sherlock completely relinquished contact with John so that they could remove the last of their clothing. In the meantime, Sherlock withdrew lube from the top drawer. It had long replaced John's now unneeded additional PTSD medication.

He lubed his fingers and turned. Sherlock positioned himself so his head was hovering above John's cock and John had a perfect linear view from Sherlock's arse all the way down to where Sherlock was beginning to flick his tongue along the head. Directly in John's view, Sherlock slid one finger inside himself as he gave a harder suck to John's cock.

Sherlock continued with both knees braced on either side of John's torso and his left hand beside John's calf.

"Jesus Christ," John gasped. He was caught between watching Sherlock finger himself and the feel of Sherlock's hot mouth swallowing around him.

Sherlock eased a second finger into himself and moaned around John's cock. He was careful to avoid his own prostate, wanting that pleasure to be all from John.

Sherlock slid his mouth all the way down John's length, the way fully slick from his saliva mixed with John's precome. He turned his head to suck at John's balls, giving each plenty of attention.

John had both of his hands on Sherlock's arse, spreading it and keeping his eyes locked on the long, dextrous fingers moving in and out. He reached out and grasped Sherlock's cock, pumping it twice just to tease his partner.

Sherlock added a third finger and loved the stretch. He flicked his tongue across John's slit, letting precome gather there before wrapping his lips around the head again.

"Let me fuck you, Sherlock. Stop being such a bloody tease and ride me," John said.

Sherlock released John's cock and turned his body around.

"Anything you want," Sherlock swore. He spread lube along John's cock and lined himself up. He sank down onto John in one stroke. They groaned in unison at the feeling.

"Yours, only yours," Sherlock said as he started to move.

John pushed his hips up to meet each of Sherlock's strokes and held tight to the taller man's bony hips. Sherlock rode John with vigour, gaining in speed. His cock was leaking onto John's chest, and John wanted to reach down and stroke it. But he resisted.

Instead, John said, "Come, Sherlock. Come just from riding me."

"I can't, John. Please touch me," Sherlock moaned.

"No, c'mon Sherlock. I know you can. I want you to come just from this. You, fucking yourself on me while I tell you what a brilliant shag you are." John pulled Sherlock down and kissed him. He traced his tongue along the shell of Sherlock's ear and carried on. "You're beautiful. So lovely when you're like this, entirely mine. I know you like it. I know you love it when I'm in control."

"Yes, Yes."

"Then why don't you be a good boy and come for me. I need you to, Sherlock. I'm so close. I'm going to come inside you, let you feel how much I love you. But only after you do. I need you to go first. Always leading me, I know you like that too. What a contradiction you are. Wanting me in control but also wanting to lead. Well here it is, Sherlock. A gift to you."

And Sherlock came. He rode John fast, slamming down as his come landed on John's chest. John still hand his hands at Sherlock's hips. He kept his lover moving as John tipped over the edge, his cock emptying inside Sherlock.

They curled together and John made a disgruntled sound at the mess that was still on his chest.

"A shower. I need a shower," he said.

Sherlock flopped over and covered John's chest with his own. The resulting sound made John jump up with a disgusted look. Sherlock, however, seemed entirely unfazed.

"Right," John said, "either you can come with me and we can figure out just how fast two people can shower, or you can lie here and I'll kip on the sofa to avoid dealing with your mess."

They ended up seeing how fast two men could shower. It was an impressive seven minute result.

Cleaned and smelling considerably better, Sherlock and John curled around one another in the darkness.

"I'm sorry I forgot our anniversary," John said calmly. Much more calmly than he felt.

"It's fine. I remembered. I remember enough for the both of us."

"Sherlock, you forget to eat."

"I didn't say I remembered all the time."

John smiled at that and knew Sherlock wouldn't let him forget anything too important.


End file.
